Debbie sighed and the air seemed to catch in her throat. “What is it about us that makes it so hard for you?”
Archie felt all the pain and guilt he kept so carefully tranquilized begin to burn in his stomach. How could he even begin to explain? “It’s complicated.”
She laid a hand on his, covering the pillbox. “Come home.”
He let their faces into his mind then. Debbie, Ben, Sara. His beautiful family. What had he done? “Okay.”
Debbie’s eyebrows shot up, disbelieving. “Really?”
He nodded a few times, trying to convince himself that this was the right thing, that it wouldn’t just make things worse for everyone. “I need to sleep. Then go into work. I can get Henry to drive me out tonight. He’d love it. He thinks I’m going to kill myself.”
Debbie touched the back of his neck. “Are you?”
Archie considered this. “I don’t think so.”
The kid began to dance again, stamping her feet, jumping. The pounding of her feet echoed through Archie’s apartment.
Debbie glanced up at the white popcorn ceiling. “What’s that sound?” she asked.
Archie was tired. His eyes burned and his head felt heavy. He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. “The kid upstairs,” he said.
He felt Debbie rest her head on his shoulder. “It sounds like home.”
He smiled. “I know.”
Yes. He could give up Gretchen. He could do that. He could move home and rebuild his family. Maybe keep the task force together, as a special-crimes unit. He could even cut back on the pills. He could try. One last go at salvation. Not for himself. Not for his family. But because if he could do it, he’d win. And Gretchen would lose.
The thought kept the smile on his face as he surrendered his sore, tired body to sleep. He felt his hand relax around the pillbox. The last thing he was aware of was Debbie lifting it out of his hand and putting it back on the table.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my writing group: Chuck, Suzy, Mary, Diana, and Barbara. I know I keep saying it, but your input made all the difference. Thanks also to my agent, Joy Harris, and everyone at the Joy Harris Agency; as well as my editor, Kelley Ragland; George Witte, Andy Martin, and everyone at St. Martin’s Minotaur. I am lucky to know such excellent people in publishing. Dr. Patricia Cain and Dr. Frank McCullar provided medical consults, and Mike Keefe and the dogs walked with me along the Willamette while I picked out places for corpses to wash up. Thanks to my mom, always, my dad and Susan, and my large and fantastic family (especially my aunts, the Cain Millers, and my graceful and strong grandmothers). Roddy McDonnell, thanks for making me such an awesome parallel parker—it is still my proudest talent. Laura Ohm and Fred Lifton, thanks for the food and company; and to my friends at The Oregonian, thanks for letting me write for you, and hang out with you. Maryann Kelley, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. Thank you, Wendy Lane, of Lane PR, the only person I ever write for who responds with two words: “It’s perfect.” Special thanks to my husband, Marc Mohan, for his editing prowess and for his tolerance of my love of televised surgery, and thanks to our daughter, Eliza, for taking all of those extra long naps. Eliza, you can’t read this book until you’re twenty-one. I mean it.
Chelsea Cain, Heartsick
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