“Lowenstein is alleged to have secured a range of policies for a third party, from buildings to people, pocketing a share of the claims. His participation came to light when a fire similar to the 1986 blaze and explosion was set in Belleville, Delaware, targeting the ex-wife of one of his coconspirators. Police believe Lowenstein attempted to have Pauline Hansen killed because she was the only person who knew about his crimes.”

No, Adam repeats to himself. Irving Lowenstein is not a killer. Money is what motivates Irving. Blow up Polly and you never find the pot of gold you’re seeking. Irving’s never even been in Belleville.

Although he knew where Polly lived, of course.

He knew because it was in one of the weekly reports that Adam sent west this summer, when Polly was still nothing more than a job. “Subject has moved to an apartment on Main Street in Belleville.”

Get to know her, Irving had said. Ingratiate yourself with the husband. Find out everything about what she does, how she spends her days, if she’s spending money.

Maybe all Irving ever wanted was enough information to figure out a way to have her killed that would look like an accident, or a random crime. And killing her makes so much more sense, if she knows his role in these long-ago deaths. Hire one guy to watch her, then another guy to kill her. Irving, sitting a hundred miles away, didn’t even have to worry about an alibi.

So this is the strain Polly has been living with since Labor Day—this chronic fear and Adam’s impossible-to-conceal doubts about her. Someone tried to kill her and she was terrified to confide in him because she didn’t think she’d be believed. Her mysterious errands, those extra miles on the truck—she’s probably been talking to Baltimore police for weeks, helping them build this case.

He’d drive straight to Delaware right now if he didn’t have two days of hunting funk on him. As it is, he’s back in the car, showered and shaved, thirty minutes after stopping at his apartment. Hits the fancy market in Annapolis to buy steaks and wine only to find himself in another traffic jam on the Bay Bridge, but he doesn’t mind. He can’t imagine minding anything, ever again. He has come so close to losing her. Once, when Irving tried to kill her and now because of his own doubts and skepticism.

Years ago, in a clog of traffic just like this, Adam’s car was rear-ended. It wasn’t bad, one of the last links in a chain reaction of fender benders. His was the penultimate car hit, and he barely tapped the bumper of the car in front of him. Then Adam had gotten out of his car, a sporty little Nissan, and looked back, seen the eighteen-wheeler that had started it all, steaming on the median where it had finally stopped, car bodies strewn like corpses. A Corolla opened on one side like a can of tuna, a Volvo’s trunk accordioned, a Mercedes that seemed almost V-shaped after the impact. Yet, best Adam could tell, no one had been seriously injured. He started to shake from the knowledge of what might have been, how many people might be dead right now if the truck driver, coming over the ridge into a traffic jam, had applied his brakes even five seconds later. Nothing makes you feel more alive than almost dying.

*

The steaks aren’t as good as they should be—it’s hard, making a perfect steak in an electric broiler, not that Adam can blame Polly for wanting no part of a gas stove these days—but the wine is wonderful, worth the cost. They curl up on the couch, his arms so tight around her that she has to break the seal when she wants to reach for her glass, take a sip.

“Why did he want to—why did he—” It’s a hard question to ask.

“Let’s not talk about it,” she says. “I’m safe. We’re safe.”

“I’m going to move back here,” he says. “As soon as I can. I’ll figure out a way to make ends meet. I’ll—”

She shakes her head. When Polly says she doesn’t want to talk, she means it. Here, with her in his arms, Adam feels the peace that eluded him while deer hunting. He will move to Belleville. He will be the man she wants him to be, the man she believed him to be until his doubts caused her to lose faith in him. There will be time enough to travel, to coax her from this tiny town, this provincial life. If she wants something and he can give it to her, he will.

He thinks again about how close he came to getting her killed, the lies that Irving told him to throw him off the scent of his real aims. It makes sense now, that postcard sent before Adam quit, Irving’s decision to terminate Adam’s employment. He wanted her dead because of what she knew about him. He hired someone to kill her and the guy—it had to be a guy—screwed up, plain and simple. Poor Cath. But Adam can’t lie. If someone had to die, better Cath than Polly. Cath didn’t deserve to die, no one really does, but no one deserves a shot at a normal life more than Polly.

She has fallen asleep in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest, her hair tickling his chin. Her hair smells of the High-Ho—grease and beer and french fries. The roots are slightly darker than the rest of her hair. She thinks he doesn’t know that she uses a henna rinse to amp up the red, but of course he does. He knows everything about her.

The hard part has been keeping track of what he’s supposed to know and what she has yet to tell him. But those days are over. No more secrets.

40

Christmas is coming

The goose is getting fat

Please put a penny in the old man’s hat