Chapter Three

After an hour or two of the county cops coming in and out, I was so exhausted, angry, and horrified that I could hardly put two words together, much less come up with coherent answers. Martin was outside most of the time, but he came through the kitchen with Sheriff Padgett Lanier following close on his heels. They went into the study across the hall and didn't come out for ages. I passed the dreary time trying to resnap Hayden's sleeper, holding him, and trying to burp him, something I recollected you were supposed to do to babies after you fed them.

"You need to hold him up a little," said one husky young man in the khaki of the sheriffs department. "I got a four-month-old," he added, to establish his credentials. I shifted the warm bundle cautiously, offering it to him. "And you need to have a diaper over your shoulder," he continued helpfully. I passed him a cloth diaper from the bag just in time. Hayden smiled and burped formula all over the diaper. The young man smiled back at him and handed the child to me. I held out my arms reluctantly. I was unused to the baby's weight and my shoulders were already aching.

Then I was horrified by how spoiled I must be, since I realized I was angry at Martin because he was not somehow making this baby go away, or at least commiserating with me, or at the very least giving me tips on what to do, because after all, he'd had one.

I resolutely made myself feel sympathy for Martin, who had found a horribly dead man on our property, who was missing a niece suspected of murder, who wasn't able to contact his sister and let her know about this situation; and on top of it all, he was still in wet clothes.

Once I rose out of my snit and channeled my thoughts in less emotional directions, I asked myself the obvious question: Was the dead man really Craig, Regina's husband? I hadn't seen Craig since the wedding. The dead man had been wearing jeans, a leather jacket... I couldn't remember any more than that, but I knew I'd see his face again in my dreams.

When I mentioned the soggy note under the windshield wiper to one of the officers who passed back and forth in a steady stream, he said it had disintegrated when they'd tried to extricate it. Gradually all the men and women left, and all the cars reversed, and I understood that the body had been removed and the last question had been asked. At least for tonight. I looked up at the clock. It was midnight, only two and a half hours since we'd left the Lowrys' house. Hayden had at last gone to sleep, and I'd put him in the infant seat, grateful for the chance to rest my arms, which were definitely worn out from the unaccustomed burden. I put my head down on the table. I must have dozed. When I looked at the clock again, it read twelve-thirty. Martin was standing by the table, looking at me. "Let's go to bed," he said, his voice empty.

"We have to get the portable crib for the baby," I pointed out, trying to sound practical rather than aggrieved.

He stared at Hayden almost in astonishment, as if he'd assumed the police had taken the baby with them, too.

"Oh my God," he said wearily.

I bit my tongue to keep from speaking.

After what I considered more than enough time for him to volunteer, I said in a tight voice, "If you'll keep an eye on him, I'll go get it." "Okay," said Martin, to my complete amazement. He sat in another chair and propped his chin on his hand, looking at the baby's face as if he'd never seen one.

Gritting my teeth and simply ducking under the crime scene tape, I went up those apartment stairs once more, maneuvering carefully around the bloodstains and wondering who the hell would clean them up. Probably me, I figured. I was building up a good head of grievance.

It was a shock to see how messy the apartment was. Of course, they'd searched for evidence about the crime and Regina's whereabouts. I don't know why I'd assumed they'd leave it neat. I shook my head in disgust with my own naiveté and snatched up a flattened contraption I assumed was the portable crib. There were assembly directions on a white rectangle attached to the pastel bumper sort of thing. I was pathetically grateful.

I was so scared I wouldn't hear the baby if he woke in the night that I laboriously assembled the crib right by our bed. Martin didn't comment. At least he carried the diaper bag up after me, and at least I managed to lay Hayden down without waking him. I perceived Hayden as a baby—instead of a massive problem—for one moment, before exhaustion took over; for that moment, I saw the smooth pale skin, the tiny fingers, the sweet crease of the neck, and it took my breath away.

Then he was once more a terrifyingly fragile being who was (it seemed) my sole responsibility, and I was totally ignorant of how to take care of him. I sighed, pulled off my clothes, and tossed them into the wicker basket in the bathroom. I pulled on my blue nightgown, brushed my teeth, and sank into bed. I registered that Martin was turning out the light before I retreated into sleep.

"Was it our hatchet?" Martin was asking me.

"Uhmm?"

"Roe, was that our hatchet?"

I considered, my head still pillowed on my arms. I felt warm and comfortable, but as soon as I really woke, misery was just waiting to pounce. I rolled over, snuggled up to my husband.

"I don't know," I said against his chest. Martin sleeps in pajama bottoms only.

He put his arm around me absently, his chin gently rubbing the top of my head.

"I hope it wasn't," was all he said.

"She didn't do it."

"Why do you think that?" He didn't sound upset, just curious. "She wouldn't leave her baby, right? And she wouldn't leave all her stuff, either," I said more firmly.

"But her car is gone, not the one Craig came in." "That was Craig's car?" Martin didn't bother answering: Of course, Craig had gotten here somehow; he hadn't dropped from the sky. Not that the scenario was unknown to me; a body had dropped from the sky into my garden the year before. But it seemed unlikely it would happen twice, even to me.

So, I reasoned, Craig had come after Regina. He'd been in his own car. Maybe Regina had left him and Craig wanted her to come back. They quarreled and Regina took the hatchet that... How did the hatchet enter the picture? Where had it been before it landed in the middle of Craig's forehead? Okay, ignore that mental image. Say Craig had been threatening Regina with a hatchet he'd gotten out of his own car— "Come back to me or I'll kill you"—and she got it away from him and killed him with it. While he stood passively below her on the stairs? And then she wrote a note to her uncle and fled, leaving her baby to the care of whoever walked in the apartment door?

Okay.

Craig had brought a friend with him, who had taken a letch to Regina. This friend got a hatchet and killed Craig and abducted Regina, but didn't want to be burdened with Hayden. Or the friend didn't even know there was a baby, so to save the child Regina had snatched a moment to stash Hayden under the bed. I thought that scenario covered everything. I relayed my theory to Martin. "That would exonerate Regina," he said, sounding as if that was a very remote possibility. He seemed a smidge more hopeful, though. "I'm sure she left because someone forced her to. I can't believe she'd leave the baby unless she was under duress." Martin kissed my forehead to say thank you, but the arm beneath my neck felt like a log, it was so hard with tension.

I decided to relieve his stress in the happiest way. I nuzzled his nipple. He drew in his breath sharply and his unoccupied hand found something pleasant to do.