was almost all the way across the patio to the door when she saw the footprints.
She nearly dropped the groceries. Automatically, she glanced around, but there was nothing to see. She stepped around the muddy tracks and tried the French doors. They were still locked.
She looked at the threshold, but there was no mud there. Relieved, she went inside and locked the doors behind her. Then she stood there and studied the muddy prints through the glass panes.
It was hard to tell how big or small the shoes were because the prints were smeared and the concrete was wet from an earlier rain. It looked as though they had no tread, though. So either the shoes were worn-out or they were soled in smooth leather.
Boudreau wore old, cracked leather boots. Maybe he’d walked over here while she was gone.
Of course, she thought with a sigh of relief. It was Boudreau who’d made the prints. It made her feel better that he’d come. Tristan had always told her that when he was away, Boudreau would watch over her.
She glanced at the clock on her phone. Eight o’clock. She stretched and yawned. “What do you think, bean? Too early to go to bed?”
She walked to the alarm box and set the door and window alarms, grabbed a glass of water and her milk shake, which she’d cooled with a couple of ice cubes, then headed into the master bedroom.
She’d already climbed into bed before she realized she’d left the curtains open. She didn’t want to get up, but she certainly didn’t want to sleep with the curtains like that, not after what had happened the last time she was here, when Murray Cho’s son had spied on her.
She closed the curtains and climbed back under the covers. She picked up a book she’d begun at her mother-in-law’s house, but it didn’t take long for her to recall why she hadn’t finished it before. She tossed it onto the floor and pulled an old fashion magazine from the shelf of the nightstand. It took practically zero concentration to glance through the ads and the fashion spreads.
She was nodding off over an ad for Bulgari earrings when the bean decided he was restless. “Ow!” she said. “Wow, bean. That was a good one.”
She rubbed the place where he’d planted his tiny foot, not that it helped much. It was like scratching your thumb because your nose itched. The place that hurt was on the inside, so rubbing the outside, while it seemed like a good idea, didn’t help much.
“Settle down. You’re going to make me go to the bathroom again. Please don’t kick my bladder.” She grunted. “And there you go. That was my bladder. I’m so glad you mind well.”
She stepped into the bathroom and saw that the curtains in there were open, too. She closed them, used the bathroom, then looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. Her eyes were wide and dark.
“Come on, Sandy,” she muttered. She looked like a pitiful heroine in a horror movie, although there was no reason to feel afraid in this house.
“This house is very safe,” she said to the baby. “It’s your daddy’s house. It was his daddy’s and his granddaddy’s house. He promised me he would always keep me safe here. Me and you now.” She felt tears starting up in her eyes and dashed them away angrily.
“This is Murray Cho’s fault,” she said. “It was his son, Patrick, who’d peeked in the window on the day of your daddy’s funeral.” She’d been terrified to see two men looking in her window, gaping into her private life.
“Our private life. I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.” She sighed. “Not even when you get here,” she said softly, patting her tummy where she thought his little back was. “It’s their fault I’m scared.”
She turned out the light and lay down, but there was no way she was going to fall asleep. It was just like the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, horrific visions haunted her. With a sigh, she sat up and turned on the lamp.
Opening the bedside table drawer, she picked up the prescription bottle and considered the label. Take one or two for sleep. She could take one. One would be safe. Extra safe, since the doctor had prescribed two.
She swallowed the pill with water. “Okay, let’s try again,” she whispered, then lay down on her side and cradled her pudgy tummy.
“Good night, little bean,” she said as she felt something wet trickle down the side of her face to the pillow. “Why am I crying?” she grumbled out loud. She rarely cried and seldom ever needed help sleeping. But tonight, there was something bothering her and it wasn’t the memory of two men peeking in her window.
She’d insisted on coming back here, had declared to Tristan’s mother that she had to come back to the house where she and Tristan had lived together. She’d told her it was the only way she could heal. She’d meant it then, but now she wasn’t so sure she’d made the best decision. An impossible thought had occurred to her while she’d been on the phone with Maddy. A ridiculous thought. A thought that couldn’t possibly ever be true. But, whether it made sense or not, she couldn’t get it out of her head.
What if it wasn’t the Chos who had spawned this fear and dread that was keeping her from sleeping? What if it was the figure she’d seen at the window later on the night of Tristan’s funeral? The figure that had to be a dream. Or was he? What if he’d been the one who’d taken her laptop computer?
Was it Tristan—or his ghost—that she was really afraid of?
She remembered him standing there just inside the bedroom window, dripping wet, his face pale and haggard. Blood had dribbled down the side of his head, mixing with the water. Sandy shuddered. She never wanted to see that apparition again as long as she lived. She did not believe in voodoo. She did not believe in ghosts or demons or goblins—not on this earth. But she knew she couldn’t live here if Tristan was going to keep showing up, even if he was just a figment of her grief-stricken imagination.
She knew he was only in her imagination, because if he were alive, he would never hurt her by pretending he was dead.
If Tristan were alive, he’d be here with her and their unborn baby.
* * *
TRISTAN UNLOCKED THE French doors of his home with the spare key that had been hidden in a fake flowerpot bottom for as long as he could remember. He shook himself, trying to get rid of the rainwater dripping off him.
Boudreau was right again. He’d been sure Tristan wasn’t strong enough yet. Now, with his leg throbbing with pain and his head fuzzy with fatigue, Tristan had to agree. But he’d had no other choice.
Boudreau had told him about Sandy showing up at his cabin that morning while Tristan was swimming. But Tristan already knew she’d been out walking.
He’d gotten a glimpse of her at the dock from the water. She’d been shading her eyes and craning her neck, so the odds were that she couldn’t see him because of the sun’s glare. The fact that she hadn’t shouted at him or marched back up to Boudreau’s asking about him had been reassuring.
According to Boudreau she’d been agitated and nervous, as if she was afraid of something. And she’d seemed desperate to talk to him. But Boudreau, knowing that Tristan would soon be coming up the same path that Sandy would be walking down, had put her off and sent her home, hopefully in time to prevent them from running into each other.
Tristan
