CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

McLean, Virginia
Susan Donovan

Susan glanced at the clock, saw it was 10:30. Damn it. The morning had gotten away from her. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought, for the better part of two hours. A cup of coffee had gone cold and scummy at her elbow. The papers were spread before her: a copy of Eddie’s will, the investments, insurance and bank statements. Since he’d returned from overseas, she’d let him handle the finances. It gave him a sense of control. Now she had to see where they stood.

She got up and dumped the coffee in the sink, poured herself a fresh cup. Skipped the milk and sugar. The sugar tasted wrong somehow, cloying and overpowering. Poisoned by memories. Eddie had drunk his coffee black. She would do so, as well.

The war had changed him. She knew how difficult it had been for him over there, and how hard he tried to fit back into the fabric of their lives once he returned. Warriors home from battle often slipped into depression, felt alien to their own lives. Without that purpose, that daily rush of adrenaline, the overwhelming courage it took to go back out on the roads, day after day after day, knowing someone was waiting to kill you, many foundered. There were no enemy combatants waiting in the bushes outside Safeway. But after years of being on guard, of not knowing if your next step was your last, they didn’t know any other way to live.

Eddie had managed rather well, considering. There were others who didn’t. There’d already been one suicide from his old unit. When Eddie heard, he’d locked himself in the study for hours, refusing to come out until Susan threatened to call the police. She understood when he tried to push her away, and knew she had to do everything in her power not to let him. When that happened, bad things followed.

Susan was still a part of the support group for their unit, for the women whose husbands continued their tours of duty overseas. She wanted out. Dear God, she wanted out. But she had so much experience, so much to offer these young wives and fiancées and girlfriends and mothers, that she didn’t feel right leaving. Eddie may have left the Army, but the Army never leaves the family.

Now that he was gone, she’d have the excuse.

She should check in on the Listserv, if only to say thank you. The flowers they’d sent were dead now, wilted in their plastic homes, but the donation confirmations were still pouring in. They’d both been very active in the Wounded Warrior Project—and many of their friends had honored Eddie’s memory by giving to the organization. She knew everyone was hoping and praying for her. She knew it. Even if she’d rather they forget she existed so she could crawl into a hole and never come out, she knew they cared.

They’d want the details on the service. Susan had spent too much time at Arlington National Cemetery. She knew exactly what to expect. And the women she’d comforted would attend by her side, walking the rows of white marble, the grass green and soft beneath their feet, the ground around them under constant disturbance, to his grave site. They’d hold her fingers, trapped in their own, and hand her tissues for her dry eyes. Just like she’d done when their husbands were being put in the ground.

When the calls started, Eleanor had stepped in and organized everything. She had taken care of parceling the food; Susan wouldn’t have to cook for weeks. Thank God Eddie made her buy that freezer. He’d decided he wanted to be a hunter one year, and they had no room for the spoils, so they’d bought a wide, deep white freezer secondhand and found a spot for it in the garage. He’d filled it up with meat from his kills. She understood his sudden impulse. He’d spent so many years with a gun in his hands that he didn’t know what to do with them empty. Hunting was an outlet, much more than just exercise and fresh air.

Venison. Another thing she’d have to give up. Like the sugar. Gone like her husband.

She wondered sometimes, what exactly he’d seen over there. He’d given her bits and pieces, enough to paint a rather gruesome picture, but there were still nights when he’d wake, crying out, and she could see the carnage reflected back in his wide, blank eyes. Demons followed him back from every tour. But he’d made it through every time. Damn it, they’d made it through.

And now this.

What the hell did the note mean? Do the right thing. It implied he’d done something wrong. Her husband wasn’t the type to do bad things. It just didn’t make sense.

And why hadn’t he shared it with her? What was he trying to hide?

Susan sat back at the table and stared at the stack of papers. She needed to be alone. To take the girls somewhere, be quiet and simple for a while. Away from this town, which had killed Eddie in the end, after all.

The phone rang. She didn’t want to answer it. But the caller ID was familiar. St. John’s Academy. The school they’d chosen for the girls. Even though they weren’t Catholic, they’d both agreed that children needed structure, discipline and respect. St. John’s promised that kind of character building, in spades.

Heart in her throat, she clicked the talk button.

“Mrs. Donovan, this is the headmaster. I’m afraid I need you to come by my office and retrieve Alina.”

Retrieve. The word registered. Thank God. Ally wasn’t dead. Would she be able to ever get a phone call again from an institution and not assume the worst?

“Is she ill?”

“No. She’s fine. We can discuss this when you arrive. Can you come now?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Mrs. Donovan, I hope you know … Well, we are all so very upset by your loss.”

“Thank you, Headmaster. And thank you for the flowers.” Susan glanced at the arrangement the school had sent, already wilted and brown, the heads dropping off the lilies onto the kitchen counter. “They’re lovely.”

“Of course. We wanted … That’s neither here nor there. We’ll see you shortly.”

Susan gathered up her purse and keys, thankful for the distraction. The headmaster’s crisp, no-nonsense voice hinted at something, though Susan was damned if she could figure out what.

The phone began to ring again as she left the kitchen. She glanced back over her shoulder at the caller ID, saw a familiar number. Betty Croswell. Well, it was just a matter of time before the wives started seeking her out to find out about the service.

Later, she thought. I’ll deal with that later.