Chapter 12: The Decanter

The house looked exactly the way I had left it, down to the cold cake on the dining room table.

Nobody had thrown it out in nineteen days.

The officer from Saturday night stood in the front hall with his thumbs in his belt.

Lucy had brought flat boxes and a roll of tape.

Nate stood behind me in his work jacket and said nothing at all.

Diane sat in the living room with her handbag in her lap, in a gray suit and pearls.

She watched me come in and did not stand.

"Take what's yours," she said. "And not a spoon more."

"I'll take what I want," I said. "Officer, my passport."

The officer asked politely.

"It's in the study," Diane said.

"Of course it is."

I walked down the hall.

The study door was open, and the lamp was on.

Conway sat behind his desk in a rumpled shirt with the top button undone.

He had not shaved.

A heavy glass of amber liquid sat in front of him, and the crystal decanter stood beside it on the blotter.

He looked up with red-rimmed eyes and a crooked, sorry smile.

"Jeanie," he said, and his voice was thick. "You came home."

"I came for my things."

"Look what you've done." He lifted the glass in a clumsy toast. "Eleven days sober, and you walk back in. Now I'm right back on it."

The officer shifted in the doorway.

"Mr. Slocumb," he said. "You're not supposed to speak to her."

"She's my wife, officer. I'm sick. She did this."

I stared at him.

I had stood in a hundred rooms while Conway looked exactly like this.

Heavy-lidded, soft-voiced, apologetic.

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