The Neighbor

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It began with a single meeting at the basketball game. Ethan had an uncle who was a certified forensic computer examiner; Ethan brought him to the game to meet with me.

Wayne Reynolds was not what I expected. In my head, computer technicians looked more like Revenge of the Nerds and less like crime show TV stars. Wayne’s burnished red hair was slightly untidy, his tie askew. The rumpledness only added to his appeal, gave him a disheveled charm that made you want to smooth his collar, brush away the loose strands of hair from his forehead. He was tall and athletic while at the same time touchable. Highly touchable.

I spent the entire forty-five minutes of our first conversation with my hands fisted by my sides so I didn’t do anything that would embarrass me.

He talked about computers. How to copy hard drives. How to analyze unused data chunks for hidden content. The importance of using the proper forensic tool.

I watched his long legs eat up the school corridor. I wondered if beneath his tan slacks, his thighs and calves were as elegantly muscled as they appeared. Did he have light reddish hair all over his body, or only on the top of his head? Would it feel as silky as it looked?

By the time we returned to the gym for the end of the basketball game, I was slightly out of breath and Ethan regarded me suspiciously. I kept my gaze away from his uncle. Ethan was a frighteningly perceptive boy, as I’d already learned the hard way.

Wayne left me with the name of a hard drive to purchase. I tucked it, along with his business card, in my purse, then took Ree home.

Later that night, after putting Ree to bed, I memorized Wayne’s e-mail address and phone number Then I ripped his business card into tiny little pieces and flushed them down the toilet I did the same with the hard-drive information. At this stage, I couldn’t afford to be careless.

Jason came home after two A.M. I heard his footsteps in the family room, the creak of the old wooden chair as he pulled it out from the kitchen table and took his customary seat at the family desktop.

I woke again at four A.M., just as he was coming into the bedroom. He didn’t turn on any lights, but undressed in a corner of darkness. I wondered about my own husband this time. What ripples of lean muscle might lurk beneath the long pants and plain, button-down shirts he always wore? Did he have waves of thick black hair on his chest? Did it form a silky line down to his groin?

After Brokeback Mountain, I used to pretend that Jason was gay, that’s why he wouldn’t touch me. It wasn’t me, I told myself He simply preferred men. But from time to time, I’d catch him watching me with a dark, hooded gleam in his eyes. Some part of him responded to me, I was certain of it Unfortunately, it was only enough to keep me, not enough to love me.

I closed my eyes as my husband crawled into bed. I feigned sleep.

Later, four-thirty, five A.M., I rolled over and touched my husband’s shoulder I spread my fingers upon the warm T-shirt covering his back. I felt the muscles ripple at contact, and I thought he owed me at least that much.

Then his fingers closed around my wrist He removed my hand from his shoulder

“Don’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Go to sleep, Sandy.”

“I want a second baby,” I said. Which was partly true. I did yearn for another child, or at least someone else who would love me.

“We could adopt,” he said.

“God, Jason. Do you hate me that much?”

He didn’t answer. I stormed out of bed, stomped downstairs, sat at the computer Then, just to be childish about things, I checked the empty recycle bin, and the three URLs left in the computer’s web history: New York Times, USA Today, and the Drudge Report.

At that moment, I despised my husband. I hated him for taking me away, but for never really saving me. I hated him for showing me respect, but for never letting me feel wanted. I hated him for his silences and for his secrets and for a lone black-and-white image of a terrified little boy who still haunted me.

“Just what kind of monster are you?” I demanded out loud. But the computer had no answers for me.

So I logged on to my AOL account. Then, working from memory, I wrote: Dear Wayne, thanks for meeting with me. I am working on our project now. I hope to see you again, at the next Thursday basketball game…