Chapter Ten
Present day
Boiling is a brisk and violent process. Helen only needed to simmer the stew, but she got distracted by the sound of the record
player weeping, preoccupied with the violin strings talking to her in B minor.
Helen rarely listened to her record player, because it consumed precious electricity. Living remotely like this required her
to make choices: Did she want to use a lantern in the kitchen while she cooked in the evenings, or did she want to use the
overhead lighting? Her choice was always overhead lighting, which meant she rarely had the luxury of music. But Wade was in
town tonight, and she was alone in the farmhouse, so she was using the overhead lighting and playing a record.
Not just any record. One of Tyler’s records.
Her long hair was coming loose from its bun, feet bare, hands clutched in front of her, eyes closed as she remembered slow dancing with him.
This song had been his favorite instrumental.
They had only ever bought a couple of dozen albums to play on the vintage Zenith record player she’d found in a thrift store.
The moment she’d seen it, she’d fallen in love with the way it had looked inside its little beige portable suitcase and had to have it for their living room.
The record player was one of the only material things she’d brought from her old life into this one.
She’d left behind the punk and rock and pop records in her parents’ garage and brought only their four instrumental albums. That kind of music seemed fitting with this kind of life.
At the time, she’d told herself it was a logical choice: If she wanted occasional music, a record player made sense, and instrumental music was timeless.
But whenever she played it, she couldn’t escape the fact that she’d brought it out here the same way a child clings to teddy bears and blankets.
She’d needed something that was hers and Tyler’s, something that Wade wouldn’t suspect was sentimental.
The instrumental song lodged the sorrow deeper inside her as she repeated his name in her head: Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, then eventually please, please, please, begging to no one for a reprieve.
The sudden knock on the door surprised her. She hadn’t wanted Wade to come home while she was playing this record, but he
was earlier than expected.
Over the music, she heard a muffled “Helen?” Later, she would wonder if what she’d heard was Hello, not Helen.
“Hold on, Wade!” she called out.
She hurried across the kitchen to the door and undid the deadbolt, then hurried back to the wood stove and moved the boiling
cast-iron pot from the burner. She stirred the stew with a large spoon, trying to loosen the bits that had burned to the bottom
of the pot.
Footsteps entered.
“It’s almost ready. You get what you needed?” she asked.
When no answer came, Helen turned back and saw the man standing in the middle of her kitchen.
She hadn’t unlocked the door for her husband.
She’d unlocked the door for a stranger.
He was tall with dark hair and several days of stubble. He had on a thick coat and well-worn jeans. She felt a dangerous energy crackling around her as she became aware of her bare feet. The man standing in her kitchen wore work boots.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
The violin music got more urgent.
The man moved to the record player and lifted the needle. The song cut out abruptly. Now, eerie silence.
Helen’s eyes roamed the kitchen, settling on a table lantern made of metal and wood, heavy with sharp edges. Then she saw
that the cooking knife was within reach.
She said, “I’m much closer to that knife than you are.”
The man looked at her strangely.
She said, “I promise I would stab you faster than you would stab me.”
The man showed little outward reaction except he studied the knife, as if assessing the blade. Finally he spoke, and the voice
that came out was steady, but there was a roughness to it. “I think you’re misunderstanding,” he said. “Is Wade here?”
“Yes, he is. He’s in the back.”
The man’s eyes were dark, gripping, and Helen felt certain he knew she was lying. She braced for whatever was coming. When
the man said nothing and didn’t move, she spoke again. “You know Wade?”
“You must be his wife.”
His familiarity with her circumstances meant nothing. He could have seen them in town together. Maybe he’d seen Wade alone
in town tonight and knew it was his chance to catch her out here alone.
“Who are you?” Helen asked.
“I’m Isaac.”
“And how do you know Wade?”
Isaac raised an eyebrow. After a long moment, he said, “I’m his brother.”
She tried, and failed, to keep the surprise from her face. Wade had told her he was an only child.
Isaac chuckled but it had a cheerless sound. “He didn’t tell you about me, did he?”
She hesitated.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to cover for him. Where is he?” Isaac walked to the living room entry and peered in. “Wade?” he
called out.
Helen used the opportunity to grab the kitchen knife. When Isaac turned back to her, he went still.
When he eventually spoke, his voice was softer, a tone to soothe wild horses. Or trick them. “I’m sorry. He’s not here, is
he?”
So far, Isaac had met every one of her questions with a question of his own. But this was her kitchen, and she was the one
holding the knife, so she didn’t answer him.
Finally, Isaac took a few careful steps back toward the front door. He shoved his hands in his front pockets and leaned against
the wall, a picture of submission.
Helen knew what to do if she encountered one of the more dangerous wild animals in the woods. With bears, you were to stay
calm, stay large, back away slowly, and not make eye contact. With cougars, it was the same protocol except you were to hold
eye contact the entire time and talk to it. With men who broke into homes, she wasn’t sure. They behaved without patterns.
The overhead lights in the kitchen flickered.
Helen set the knife on the counter but kept her hand resting on the handle.
“Something in here smells good,” Isaac said. “Is that paprika?”
“He’ll be here any minute. Is he expecting you?”
“Not likely. I didn’t exactly get an invitation to your wedding.”
She regarded him suspiciously. His references indicated an intimate knowledge of their situation, but again, anyone could
make these assumptions. If a couple were married, presumably they would have had a wedding of some kind. She waited for him
to continue, to trip himself on a detail.
“I mean, I know you two didn’t have a formal wedding, but I could have been a witness at the courthouse. Our parents are dead, which I’m sure you know, or maybe you don’t.” He paused deliberately. It was a challenge.
Briskly, she said, “Yes, I know.”
“So I guess that made it easy for Wade to snub his only brother.”
Helen studied the planes of the man’s face more closely. He looked similar enough to Wade that it was possible they were biological
brothers. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he possessed an attractive masculinity. He was just as tall as Wade, probably
slightly taller, but otherwise not as physically imposing. He looked about her age, so possibly Wade’s younger brother by
a few years. She removed her hand from the knife handle but otherwise did not move away from it.
“It wasn’t a snub,” she said. “It all happened quickly.”
Isaac waved his hand—Don’t worry about it—and Helen didn’t appreciate the pardon from a perfect stranger, but the feeling of annoyance that rose in her lessened her
fear of him. This man seemed genuinely wounded that he hadn’t been invited to the wedding.
That, or he was a good actor.
“I think you should wait outside for Wade.”
Isaac straightened up from the wall. “Sure, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He paused, then added, “But if you were to get in
trouble out here, I have to admit, that response there is pretty intimidating.” He looked at the knife that rested on the
counter. “Just be sure you’re prepared to actually use that.”
Helen stared at him without blinking.
Isaac said, “But I think you are.”
He turned to the front door, but when he noticed the Poe book lying on the side table, he stopped. “Reading a little Poe?”
She watched guardedly as he picked up the book with an expression of sincere curiosity. Such a performance, she thought. She
crossed her arms. The truth was, she didn’t feel threatened anymore. She just felt angry.
“What’s your favorite poem?” he asked.
“I don’t have a favorite.”
He opened the book to the page she’d folded down for the bird funeral. “It looks like your favorite is ‘The Raven.’”
“No, that’s just because I killed a bird today.”
“You killed a bird today,” he repeated, rolling the words around as if it was the most interesting declaration. He waited
for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he gestured toward the stew on the stove. “Is it in there?”
“No.”
“No?”
Helen could feel him circling her. Even though he now stood farther away from her than he had since he’d entered the house,
she could feel him closing in. She pushed back against the feeling.
“It was an accident,” she said.
“How do you accidentally kill a bird?”
“The same way you purposefully kill a bird, except without intention. I shot it.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“I am.”
“What is your name, Wade’s wife?”
“Helen.” The circle closed tighter around her.
Isaac returned the book to the side table and faced her. He wasn’t going to go outside anymore and she didn’t know how to
make him. She needed to find her shoes and socks. It wasn’t right that she was standing in the kitchen with her toes bare,
the tips of her toenails white against her pale skin.
Then headlights briefly passed through the kitchen and broke apart the circle.
“That’s him,” Helen said, and Isaac visibly tensed. Interesting that he seemed composed when threatened with a knife, but
now he rocked impatiently from one foot to the other.
Isaac watched the door expectantly, and Helen watched Isaac carefully. As she noticed the way he pressed his fingertips into the side of his leg, she realized her vantage point had shifted. Now she was far outside the circle, a spectator waiting to see what would unfold in this strange saga.
The front door opened and Wade appeared, smiling.
His smile fell away when he saw the man in the kitchen, and fear flashed there instead.