Part 3
Jack’s house stood beyond a row of cottonwoods at the end of a gravel lane. It was larger than Claire expected, built of red brick with a deep front porch and warm light behind the kitchen windows. Nothing about it looked temporary.
Jack carried her single duffel bag inside. A deputy had retrieved it from the apartment after checking every pocket, but it contained little beyond two changes of clothes, a college sweatshirt, prenatal vitamins, and three textbooks with secondhand stickers on their spines.
Ghost waited behind a waist-high gate between the mudroom and kitchen.
He watched Claire without wagging his tail.
“You said he had manners,” she murmured.
“He does. He’s also suspicious, territorial, and smarter than is convenient.”
“That sounds like manners compared to Mason’s friends.”
Jack opened the gate but kept one hand on Ghost’s collar. The wolfdog crossed the kitchen slowly and stopped three feet from Claire. She stood still while he examined the hem of her coat, her hands, and the hospital bracelet around her wrist.
At last he stepped away and lay beside the refrigerator.
“That means I passed?” she asked.
“It means he’ll continue his investigation tomorrow.”
The guest room had once belonged to Jack’s mother. The furniture had changed, but the house still carried signs of the woman for whom it had been built: the low light switches, the handrail beside the short hallway step, the wide bathroom door. A framed photograph on the dresser showed Jack as a younger man in Navy dress uniform beside a small woman whose smile looked too lively for the formal pose.
Claire touched neither the photograph nor anything else.
“The lock works,” Jack said, demonstrating it. “Bathroom is across the hall. I’m downstairs. Ghost usually sleeps in the kitchen.”
“Usually?”
“He has opinions.”
After Jack left, Claire locked the door. She placed a chair beneath the knob anyway.
At 2:17 a.m., she woke convinced that someone was inside the room.
She sat up too quickly, one hand reaching for a lamp that was not where she expected. Moonlight fell through the curtains. Nothing moved except the shadow of branches across the floor.
Then she heard breathing on the other side of the door.
Claire lifted the chair silently and opened it two inches.
Ghost lay in the hallway with his back against the wall. He raised his head, looked at her once, and lowered it again.
She left the chair where it was but did not replace it beneath the knob.
By morning, Jack had made eggs and burned one piece of toast. He slid a plate toward her without mentioning that she had eaten two granola bars from her duffel during the night.
Claire finished half the eggs and wrapped the toast in a napkin when she thought he was not looking. The movement was practiced and fast.
Jack opened the pantry.
“This shelf is yours,” he said.
She followed his gaze. He had cleared one section and filled it with crackers, fruit cups, peanut butter, soup, cereal, and the same granola bars she had packed.
“I didn’t ask you to buy anything.”
“I was low on groceries.”
“You bought six kinds of crackers?”
“Couldn’t remember which ones pregnant people eat.”
Her mouth tightened. “Pregnant people eat normal food.”
“Then you have normal food.”
He closed the pantry and carried his coffee to the sink. Claire stood in front of the shelf for several seconds before putting the wrapped toast back on her plate.
Later that morning, Jack drove her to a prenatal clinic in town. Ortiz met them there and reported that a judge had approved a search warrant for the storage unit. The facility manager confirmed that someone had opened it twice using an access code made from Claire’s birthday.
“Does Mason know your birthday?” Ortiz asked.
“He was the first person who ever planned anything for it.”
Claire looked through the clinic window. “I thought that meant something.”
Inside the examination room, a nurse asked whom Claire wanted listed as her emergency contact.
She left the line blank.
Jack intended to wait in the hallway during the ultrasound, but Claire stopped him as he reached the door.
“You can stay,” she said. “If you want.”
The screen showed a pale curve, the flicker of a heart, and one small hand opening and closing near the baby’s face. Jack had faced North Atlantic storms that threw steel tools across decks. Nothing had ever made him feel as unprepared as that tiny hand.
“Everything looks good,” the technician said.
Claire exhaled slowly. “He’s okay?”
“He’s measuring right where he should.”
On the drive home, Claire rested one palm on the folded ultrasound printout. Neither she nor Jack spoke much. Some moments became smaller when explained too quickly.
That afternoon, she asked to wash the blue coat she had worn at the marsh. Its cuffs were stiff with mud, and the left pocket had torn when Pike dragged her from the SUV.
Jack started the washing machine, then heard a metallic knock during the spin cycle. He stopped it and reached inside.
A brass key lay at the bottom of the drum.
It had not come from either pocket. The inner lining of the coat had split near the hem, exposing several rough stitches made with dark thread. Claire stared at the key in Jack’s palm. A small plastic tag was attached to it. 214…
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