He was the first person Trixie knew who’d died. Technically4, that wasn’t quite accurate - her grandmother had died in Alaska when Trixie was four, but Trixie had never met her. She remembered her father sitting at the kitchen table with the telephone still in his hand even though the person on the other end had hung up, and silence landing on the house like a fat black crow.
Jason kept glancing at the ground, as if he needed to keep track of his footsteps. Trixie tried not to look at the bruises7 on his face or the blood on his collar. “I’m not scared of you,” she said, although she was not telling the truth. “You can’t do anything to me.” She wondered if ghosts had the powers of superheroes, if they could see through linen8 and flannel9 to spot her legs shaking, if they could swallow her words and spit her lie back out like a bullet.
Jason leaned so close that his hand went right through Trixie.
It felt like winter. He was able to draw her forward, as if he were magnetic and she had dissolved into a thousand metal filings.
Pulling her upright in her bed, he kissed her full on the mouth. He tasted of dark soil and muddy currents. I’m not through with you, Jason vowed10, and then he disappeared bit by bit, the pressure against her lips the last thing to go.
Afterward11, Trixie lay in bed, shaking. She thought about the bitter cold that had taken up residence under her breastbone, like a second heart made of ice. She thought about what Jason had said and wondered why he’d had to die before he felt the same way she had felt about him all along.
Mike Bartholemew crouched12 in front of the boot prints that led up to the railing of the bridge from which Jason had jumped, a cryptic15 choreography of the boy’s last steps. Placing a ruler next to the best boot print, he took a digital photo. Then he lifted an aerosol16 can and sprayed light layers of red wax over the area. The wax froze the snow, so that when he took the mixture of dental stone and water he’d prepared to make a cast, it wouldn’t melt any of the ridge14 details.
While he waited for his cast to dry, he hiked down the slippery bank to the spot being combed by crime scene investigators18. In his own tenure19 as a detective, he’d presided over two suicides in this very spot, one of the few in Bethel where you could actually fall far enough to do serious damage.
Jason Underhill had landed on his side. His head had cracked ‘he ice on the river and was partially20 submerged. His hand was covered with dirt and matted leaves. The snow was still stained pink with blood that had pooled beneath his head.
For all intents and purposes, Jason had done the taxpayers21 a favor by saving them the cost of a trial and possible incarceration22. Being tried as an adult for rape23 made the stakes higher - and more potentially devastating24. Bartholemew had seen lesser25 motives27 that caused folks to take their own lives.
He knelt beside Jerry, one of the forensic28 cops. “What have you got?”
“Maria DeSantos, only seventy degrees colder.”
Maria DeSantos had been their last suicide plunger in this location, but she had been missing for three weeks in the heat of the summer before the stench of the decomposing29 body had attracted a kayaker on the river. “Find anything?”
“A wallet and a cell phone. There could be more, but the snow’s pretty deep.” Jerry glanced up from his collection of blood on the body. “You see the kid play in the exhibition game last night in town?”
“I was on duty.”
“I heard he was hammered . . . and that he was still a hell of a player.” Jerry shook his head. “Damn shame, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Bartholomew said, and he stood up. He had already been to the Underhill house, to bring them the news of their son’s death. Greta Underhill had opened the door, looked at his face, and burst into tears. Her husband had been only superficially composed. He thanked Bartholemew for bringing the information and said he’d like to see Jason now. Then he’d walked outside into the snow, without a coat, barefoot.
Bartholemew’s own boss had brought him the news about Holly30.
He’d known that the worst had happened when he saw the chief of police standing31 on his porch in the middle of the night. He remembered demanding to be driven to the scene, where he stood at the guardrail her car had smashed through. He remembered, too, going to identify Holly’s body in the hospital morgue. Bartholemew had pulled aside the sheet to see the tracks on her arms, the ones he’d been blind to as a parent. He’d put his hand over Holly’s heart, just to make sure.
The Underhills wanted to see Jason; they’d be given that privilege before the autopsy33 began. In this sense, accidents, suicides, and murders were all the same - any death that occurred without someone there to witness it was automatically brought to the medical examiner for a determination of cause. It wasn’t police procedure as much as human nature. We all want to know what went wrong, even when there isn’t really an answer to that question.
The Monday after Jason Underhill’s suicide, two psychologists were called to the high school to help students who needed to grieve. The hockey team took to wearing black armbands and fought, vowing34 to take the state title in homage35 to their fallen teammate.
One entire page of the Portland paper’s sports section was dedicated36 to a memorial of Jason’s athletic38 achievements.
That same day, Laura went out for groceries. She moved aimessly through the store, picking up things like ugli fruit and bags of pitted prunes39, slivered40 almonds, and balls of buffalo41 mozzarella. Somewhere in her purse she knew she had a list - ordinary items like bread and milk and dishwashing detergent42 - but there was a part of her that felt normal things didn’t apply anymore and therefore there was no point in buying them. Eventually, she found herself in front of the freezer section, the door open and the cold spilling over the toes of her boots. There must have been a hundred different ice cream flavors. How could you pick, knowing that you’d have to go home and live with the choice you’d made? She was reading the ingredients on a peach sorbet when she heard two women talking one aisle43 over, hidden by the freezers. “What a tragedy,” one said. “That boy was going places.” “I heard that Greta Underhill can’t get out of bed,” the second woman added. “My pastor44 was told by her pastor that she might not even make it to the funeral.”
A week ago, in spite of the rape accusations45, Jason had still been a hero to most of this town. But now death had swelled46 him to epic47 proportions.
Laura curled her hands around the front bar of her grocery cart, navigated48 around the corner, until she was face to face with the women who’d been talking. “Do you know who I am?” The ladies glanced at each other, shook their heads. “I’m the mother of the girl Jason Underhill raped49.”
She said it for the shock value. She said it on the off chance that these ladies might, out of sudden shame, apologize. But neither of them said a word.
Laura guided her shopping cart around the corner and toward an empty checkout50 line. The cashier had a skunk-streak of blue hair and a ring through her bottom lip. Laura reached into the basket and held up a box of plastic knives - when had she taken those off a shelf? “You know,” she said to the cashier, “I actually don’t need those.”
“No biggie. We can reshelve them.”
Six packets of powdered hollandaise sauce, suntan lotion51, and wart52 remover medicine. “Actually,” Laura said, “I’m going to pass on these, too.”
She emptied the rest of her shopping cart: bacon bits and baby food and Thai coconut54 milk; a sippy cup and hair elastics55 and two pounds of green jalapenos; the peach sorbet. She stared at the items on the conveyor belt as if she were seeing them for the first time. “I don’t want any of this,” Laura said, surprised, as if it were anyone’s fault but her own.
Dr. Anjali Mukherjee spent most of her time in the morgue, not just because she was the county medical examiner but also because when she ventured abovestairs at the hospital, she was continually mistaken for a med student or, worse, a candy striper. She was five feet tall, with the small, delicate features of a child, but Mike Bartholemew had seen her elbow-deep in a Y-shaped incision56, determining the cause of death of the person who lay on her examination table.
“The subject had a blood alcohol level of point one two,”
Anjali said, as she rifled through a series of X-rays and headed toward the light box on the wall.
Legal intoxication57 was .10; that meant Jason Underhill was considerably58 trashed when he went over the railing of the bridge.
At least he wasn’t driving, Bartholomew thought. At least he only killed himself.
“There,” the medical examiner said, pointing at an X-ray. “What do you see?” “Afoot?”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks59. Come over here for a second.” Anjali cleared off a lab table and patted it. “Climb up.”
“I don’t want . . .”
“Climb up, Bartholemew.”
Grudgingly60, he stood on top of the table. He glanced down at the top of Anjali’s head. “And I’m doing this why?”
“Jump.”
Bartholemew hopped61 a little.
“I meant jump off.”
He swung his arms, then went airborne, landing in a crouch13.
“Goddamn, I still can’t fly.”
“You landed on your feet,” Anjali said. “Like most people who jump. When we see suicides like this, the X-rays show heel fractures and vertical62 compressions of the spine63, which aren’t present on this victim.”
“Are you telling me he didn’t fall?”
“No, he fell. There’s contrecoup damage to the brain that suggests acceleration64. When someone lands on the back of the skull, you’ll see injury to the front of the brain, because it continues to fall after the skull stops and hits it hard.”
“Maybe he jumped and landed on his head,” Bartholemew suggested.
“Interestingly, I didn’t see the types of fractures associated with that either. Let me show you what I did find, though.” Anjali handed him two photographs, both of Jason Underhill’s face. They were identical, except for the black eye and bruising65 along the temple and jaw66 of the second one.
“You been beating up the subjects, Angie?”
“That only works premortem,” Anjali replied. “I took these ten hours apart. When you brought him in, he didn’t have bruises . . .
except for a subtle hemorrhage in the facial area that could have been caused by the fall. But he was lying on that side of his face when found, and the pooling of the blood might have obscured the contusions. When he was brought to the morgue and placed sunny-side up, the blood redistributed.” She removed the X-ray they’d been examining. “When I was doing an FP fellowship, we had a Jane Doe come in with no apparent external trauma67, except for a slight hemorrhage in the strap68 muscles of the neck. By the time the autopsy was over, there were two obvious handprints on her throat.”
“Couldn’t he have banged himself up when he fell?”
“I thought you’d say that. Take a look at this.” Anjali slid another X-ray onto the light box.
Bartholemew whistled softly. “That’s his face, huh?”
“It was.”
He pointed69 to a crack along the temple of the skull. “That looks like a fracture.”
“That’s where he landed,” Anjali said. “But look closer.”
Bartholemew squinted70. On the cheekbone and the jaw were smaller, fainter fault lines.
“In the case of a blow and a subsequent fall, the fracture lines caused by the fall are blocked by those caused by the initial blow. An injury to the head caused by a fall is usually found around the level of the brim of a hat. However, a hard punch to the face usually hits below that.”
The fracture at Underhills temple radiated out toward the eye socket71 and the cheekbone but stopped abruptly72 at one of these hairline cracks.
“The subject also had extravasation of red blood cells on tissues around his jaw and ribs73.”
“Which means what?”
“It’s a bruise6 that didn’t get to happen. Meaning there was trauma to that tissue, but before that blood could break down and go black and blue, the subject died.”
“So maybe he was in a fight before he decided74 to jump,”
Bartholemew said, his mind running fast with possibilities.
“You might also be interested in this.” Anjali passed him a microscopic75 slide with tiny filings on it. “We dug them out of the subject’s fingertips.”
“What are they?”
“Splinters consistent with the railing of the bridge. There were some wood slivers76 caught in the tails of his jacket, too.”
Anjali glanced at Bartholemew. “I don’t think this kid killed himself by jumping off a bridge,” she said. “I think he was pushed.”
When Daniel heard sobbing77, he immediately assumed it was Trixie. In the days since they’d heard the news about Jason, she would dissolve without any provocationat the dinner table, while brushing her teeth, staring at a commercial on television. She was so firmly entrenched79 in memory that Daniel didn’t know how to pry80 her loose and bring her back to the real world.
Sometimes he held her. Sometimes he just sat down next to her.
He never tried to stop her tears; he didn’t think he had that right. He just wanted her to know that he was there if she needed him.
This time, when the crying began, Daniel followed the sound upstairs. But instead of finding Trixie sobbing, he turned into his own bedroom to find his wife sitting on the floor, hugging a knot of clean laundry against her. “Laura?”
She turned at the sound of her name, wiping her cheeks. “I’m sorry . . . it’s wrong, I know . . . but I keep thinking about him.”
Him. Daniel’s heart turned over. How long would it be until he could hear a sentence like that and not feel as if he’d been punched? “It’s just...” She wiped her eyes. “It’s just that he was someone’s child, too.”
Jason. The immediate78 relief Daniel felt to know that Laura wasn’t crying over the nameless man she’d slept with evaporated as he realized that she was crying, instead, for someone who didn’t merit that kind of mercy.
“I’ve been so lucky, Daniel,” Laura said. “What if Trixie had died last week? What if... what if you’d told me to move out?”
Daniel reached out to tuck Laura’s hair behind her ear. Maybe you had to come close to losing something before you could remember its value. Maybe it would be like that for the two of them. “I would never have let you go.”
Laura shuddered81, as if his words had sent a shock through her.
“Daniel, I . . .”
“You don’t need to cry for us,” he said, squeezing her shoulder, “because we’re all going to be fine.”
He felt Laura nod against him.
“And you don’t have to cry for Jason,” Daniel said. “Because Jason deserves to be dead.”
He hadn’t spoken the words aloud, the ones he’d been thinking ever since Laura had taken that phone call days before. But this was exactly the sort of world he drew: one where actions had consequences, where revenge and retribution were the heartbeat of a story. Jason had hurt Trixie; therefore, Jason deserved to be punished.
Laura drew back and stared at him, wide-eyed.
“What?” Daniel said, defiant83. “Are you shocked that I would think that?”
She was quiet for a moment. “No,” Laura admitted. “Just that you said it out loud.”
The minute Bartholemew entered the digital photo of the footprints on the bridge into his software program and compared it to an inking of Jason’s boot, he got a match. However, there was another footprint with a tread on the sole that was different from Jason’s, possibly from their suspect’s shoe.
With a sigh, Bartholemew turned off his computer screen and took out the bag of evidence collected from the crime scene. He rummaged84 for the cell phone that Jerry had found near the victim.
A Motorola, identical to the one Bartholemew carried - up here in Maine, you just didn’t have all the cellular86 options available in a big city. Jason had probably bought it from the same store where he’d bought his. The same sales rep had probably programmed it for him.
Bartholemew started punching buttons. There were no messages, text or voice. But there was a memo37.
He hit the shortcut87 button, *8, and suddenly the sound of a fight filled the room. There were punches being landed, and grunts88 and moans. He heard Jason’s voice, pleas that broke off at their edges. And another familiar voice: If you ever, ever come near my daughter again, I will kill you.
Bartholemew stood up, grabbed his coat, and headed out to find Daniel Stone.
“What do you think happens when you die?” Zephyr89 asked.
Trixie was lying on her stomach on her bed, flipping90 through the pages of Allure91 magazine and looking at purses and shoes that she would never be able to afford. She didn’t get purses, anyway.
She didn’t want to ever be the kind of person who couldn’t carry what she needed in her back pocket. “You decompose,” Trixie said, and she turned to the next ad.
“That is so totally disgusting,” Zephyr said. “I wonder how long it takes.”
Trixie had wondered that too, but she wasn’t going to admit it to Zephyr. Every night since his death, Jason had visited her in her bedroom in the darkest part of the night. Sometimes he just stared until she woke up; sometimes he talked to her. Finally he left by blasting through her middle.
She knew that he hadn’t been buried yet, and maybe that was why he kept coming. Maybe once his body began to break down inside its coffin93, he wouldn’t show up at the foot of her bed.
Since Trixie had returned from the hospital, it had been like old times - Zephyr would come over after school and tell her everything she was missing: the catfight between two cheerleaders who liked the same guy, the substitute teacher in French who couldn’t speak a single word of the language, the sophomore94 who got hospitalized for anorexia95. Zephyr had also been her source of information about how Bethel High was processing Jason’s death.
The guidance counselors97 had led an assembly about teen depression; the principal had gotten on the PA during homeroom announcements to have a moment of memorial silence; Jason’s locker98 had become a shrine99, decorated with notes and stickers and Beanie Babies. It was, Trixie realized, as if Jason had grown larger than life after his death, as if it was going to be even harder now for her to avoid him. Zephyr rolled over. “Do you think it hurts to die?” Not as much as it hurts to live, Trixie thought. “Do you think we go somewhere .. . after?” Zephyr asked. Trixie closed her magazine.
“I don’t know.” “I wonder if it’s like it is here. If there are popular dead people and geeky dead people. You know.”
That sounded like high school, and the way Trixie figured it, that was more likely to be hell. “I guess it’s different for different people,” she said. “Like, if you died, there’d be an endless supply of Sephora makeup100. For Jason, it’s one big hockey rink.”
“But do people ever cross over? Do the hockey players ever get to hang out with the people who eat only chocolate? Or the ones who play Nintendo twenty-four/seven?”
“Maybe there are dances or something,” Trixie said. “Or a bulletin board, so you know what everyone else is up to, and you can join in if you want and blow it off if you don’t.”
“I bet when you eat chocolate in heaven it’s no big deal,”
Zephyr said. “If you can have it whenever you want it, it probably doesn’t taste as good.” She shrugged101. “I bet they all watch us down here, because they know we’ve got it better than them and we’re too stupid to realize it.” She glanced sideways at Trixie.
“Guess what I heard.”
“What?”
“His whole head was bashed in.”
Trixie felt her stomach turn over. “That’s just a rumor102.”
“It’s totally not. Marcia Breen’s brother’s girlfriend is a nurse, and she saw Jason being brought into the hospital.” She popped a bubble with her gum. “I hope that if he went to heaven, he got a big old bandage or plastic surgery or something.”
“What makes you think he’s going to heaven?” Trixie asked.
Zephyr froze. “I didn’t mean ... I just. ..” Her gaze slid toward Trixie. “Trix, are you truly glad he’s dead?”
Trixie stared at her hands in her lap. For a moment, they looked like they belonged to someone else - still, pale, too heavy for the rest of her. She forced herself to open her magazine again, and she pretended she was engrossed104 in an ad about tampons so that she didn’t have to give Zephyr a reply. Maybe after reading for a while, they would both forget what Zephyr had asked.
Maybe after a while, Trixie wouldn’t be afraid of her answer.
According to Dante, the deeper you got into hell, the colder it was. When Daniel imagined hell, he saw the vast white wasteland of the Yukon-Kuskokwim delta105 where he’d grown up. Standing on the frozen river, you might see smoke rising in the distance. A Yup’ik Eskimo would know it was open water, steaming where it hit the frigid106 air, but a trick of the light could make you believe otherwise. You might think you see the breath of the devil.
When Daniel drew the ninth circle of hell, it was a world of planes and angles, a synchronicity of white lines, a land made of ice. It was a place where the greater effort you made to escape, the more deeply entrenched you were.
Daniel had just put the finishing touches on the devil’s face when he heard a car pull into the driveway. From the window of his office he watched Detective Bartholemew get out of his Taurus. He had known it was coming to this, hadn’t he? He had known it the minute he’d walked into that parking lot and found Jason Underhill with Trixie.
Daniel opened up the front door before the detective could knock. “Well,” Bartholemew said. “That’s what I call service.”
Daniel tried to channel the easy repartee107 of social intercourse108 but it was like he was fresh out of the village again, bombarded by sensations he didn’t understand: colors and sights and speech he’d never seen or heard before. “What can I do for you?” he asked finally.
“I was wondering if we could talk for a minute,” Bartholemew said.
No, Daniel thought. But he led the detective inside to the living room and offered him a seat.
“Where’s the rest of the family?”
“Laura’s teaching,” Daniel said. “Trixie’s upstairs with a friend.”
“How’d she take the news about Jason Underhill?”
Was there a right answer to that question? Daniel found himself replaying possible responses in his head before he balanced them on his tongue. “She was pretty upset. I think she feels partially responsible.”
“What about you, Mr. Stone?” the detective asked.
He thought about the conversation he’d had with Laura just that morning. “I wanted him to be punished for what he did,” Daniel said. “But I never wished him dead.”
The detective stared at him for a long minute. “Is that so?”
There was a thump109 overhead; Daniel glanced up. Trixie and Zephyr had been upstairs for about an hour. When Daniel had last checked on them, they were reading magazines and eating Goldfish crackers110.
“Did you see Jason Friday night?” Detective Bartholemew asked.
“Why?”
“We’re just trying to piece together the approximate time of the suicide.”
Daniel’s mind spiraled backward. Had Jason said something to the cops about the incident in the woods? Had the guy who’d driven by the parking lot during their fistfight gotten a good look at Daniel? Had there been other witnesses? “No, I didn’t see Jason,” Daniel lied.
“Huh. I could have sworn I saw you in town.”
“Maybe you did. I took Trixie to the minimart to get some cheese. We were making a pizza for dinner.”
“About when was that?”
The detective pulled a pad and pencil out of his pocket; it momentarily stopped Daniel cold. “Seven,” he said. “Maybe seven-thirty. We just drove to the store and then we left.”
“What about your wife?”
“Laura? She was working at the college, and then she came home.”
Bartholemew made a note on his pad. “So none of you ran into Jason?”
Daniel shook his head.
Bartholemew put his pad back into his breast pocket. “Well,” he said, “then that’s that.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help you,” Daniel answered, standing up.
The detective stood too. “You must be relieved. Obviously your daughter won’t have to testify as a witness now.”
Daniel didn’t know how to respond. Just because the rape case wouldn’t proceed didn’t mean that Trixie’s slate111 would be wiped clean as well. Maybe she wouldn’t testify, but she wouldn’t get back to who she used to be, either.
Bartholemew headed toward the front door. “It was pretty crazy in town Friday night, with the Winterfest and all,” he said. “Did you get what you wanted?”
Daniel went still. “I beg your pardon?”
“The cheese. For your pizza.”
He forced a smile. “It turned out perfect,” Daniel said.
When Zephyr left a little while later, Trixie offered to walk her out. She stood on the driveway, shivering, not having bothered with a coat. The sound of Zephyr’s heels faded, and then Trixie couldn’t even see her anymore. She was about to head back inside when a voice spoke82 from behind. “It’s good to have someone watching over you, isn’t it?”
Trixie whirled around to find Detective Bartholemew standing in the front yard. He looked like he was freezing, like he’d been waiting for a while. “You scared me,” she said.
The detective nodded down the block. “I see you and your friend are on speaking terms again.”
“Yeah. It’s nice.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Did you, um, come to talk to my dad?”
“I already did that. I was sort of hoping to talk to you.”
Trixie glanced at the window upstairs, glowing yellow, where she knew her father was still working. She wished he was here with her right now. He’d know what to say. And what not to.
You had to talk to a policeman if he wanted to talk to you, didn’t you? If you said no, he’d immediately know there was something wrong.
“Okay,” Trixie said, “but could we go inside?”
It was weird112, leading the detective into their mudroom. She felt like he was boring holes in the back of her shirt with his eyes, like he knew something about Trixie she didn’t know about herself yet.
“How are you feeling?” Detective Bartholemew asked. Trixie instinctively113 pulled her sleeves lower, concealing114 the fresh cuts she’d made in the shower. “I’m okay.”
Detective Bartholemew sat down on a teak bench. “What happened to Jason ... don’t blame yourself.” | Tears sprang into her throat, dark and bitter.
“You know, you remind me a little of my daughter,” the detective said. He smiled at Trixie, then shook his head. “Being here... it didn’t come easy to her, either.”
Trixie ducked her head. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She pictured Jason’s ghost: blued by the moon, bloody115 and distant. “Did it hurt? How he died?”
“No. It was fast.”
He was lying - Trixie knew it. She hadn’t realized that a policeman might lie. He didn’t say anything else for such a long time that Trixie looked up at him, and that’s when she realized he was waiting for her to do just that. “Is there something you want to tell me, Trixie? About Friday night?”
Once, Trixie had been in the car when her father ran over a squirrel. It came out of nowhere, and the instant before impact Trixie had seen the animal look at them with the understanding that there was ? nowhere left to go. “What about Friday night?”
“Something happened between your father and Jason, didn’t it.”
“No.”
The detective sighed. “Trixie, we already know about the fight.”
Had her father told him? Trixie glanced up at the ceiling, wishing she were Superman, with X-ray vision, or able to communicate telepathically like Professor Xavier from the X-Men. She wanted to know what her father had said; she wanted to know what she should say. “Jason started it,” she explained, and once she began, the words tumbled out of her. “He grabbed me. My father pulled him away. They fought with each other.”
“What happened after that?”
“Jason ran away . . . and we went home.” She hesitated. “Were we the last people to see him . . . you know . . . alive?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
It was possible that this was why Jason kept coming back to her now. Because if Trixie could still see him, then maybe he wouldn’t be gone. She looked up at Bartholemew. “My father was just protecting me. You know that, right?” “Yeah,” the detective said. “Yeah, I do.”
Trixie waited for him to say something else, but Bartholemew seemed to be in a different place, staring at the bricks on the floor of the mudroom. “Are we . . . done?”
Detective Bartholemew nodded. “Yes. Thanks, Trixie. I’ll let myself out.”
Trixie didn’t know what else there was to say, so she opened the door that led into the house and closed it behind her, leaving the de tective alone in the mudroom. She was halfway116 upstairs when Bartholemew reached for her father’s boot, stamped the sole on an in1 pad he’d taken from his pocket, and pressed it firmly onto a piece of blank white paper.
The medical examiner called while Bartholemew was waiting for his order at the drive-through window of a Burger King. “Merry Christmas,” Anjali said when he answered his cell phone.
“You’re about a week early,” Bartholemew said.
The girl in the window blinked at him. “Ketchup mustard salt or pepper?”
“No, thanks.”
“I haven’t even told you what I’ve got yet,” Anjali said.
“I hope it’s a big fat evidentiary link to murder.”
In the window of the drive-through, the girl adjusted her paper hat. “That’s five thirty-three.”
“Where are you?” Anjali said.
Bartholemew opened his wallet and took out a twenty. “Clogging my arteries117.”
“We started to clean off the body,” the medical examiner explained. “The dirt on the victim’s hand? Turns out it’s not dirt after all. It’s blood.”
“So he scraped his hand, trying to hold on?”
The girl at the counter leaned closer and snapped the bill out of his fingers.
“I can ABO type a dried stain at the lab, and this was O positive. Jason was B positive.” She let that sink in. “It was blood, Mike, but not Jason Underhill’s.”
Bartholemew’s mind started to race: If they had the murderer’s blood, they could link a suspect to the crime. It would be easy enough to get a DNA118 sample from Daniel Stone when he was least expecting it - saliva119 taken from an envelope he’d sealed or from the rim17 of a soda120 can tossed into the trash.
Stone’s boot print hadn’t been a match, but Bartholemew didn’t see that as any particular deterrent121 to an arrest. There had been hundreds of folks in town Friday night; the question wasn’t who had walked across the bridge, but who hadn’t. Blood evidence, on the other hand, could be damning. Bartholemew pictured Daniel Stone on the icy bridge, going after Jason Underhill. He imagined Jason trying to hold him off. He thought back to his conversation with Daniel, the Band-Aid covering the knuckles122 of his right hand. “I’m on my way,” Bartholemew told Anjali.
“Hey,” the Burger King girl said. “What about your food?”
“I’m not hungry,” he said, pulling out of the pickup123 line.
“Don’t you want change?” the girl called.
All the time, Mike thought, but he didn’t answer.
“Daddy,” Trixie asked, as she was elbow-deep in the sink washing dishes, “what were you like as a kid?”
Her father did not glance up from the kitchen table he was wiping with a sponge. “Nothing like you are,” he said. “Thank God.”
Trixie knew her father didn’t like to talk about growing up in Alaska, but she was starting to think that she needed to hear about it. She had been under the impression that her dad was of the typical suburban124 genus and species: the kind of guy who mowed125 his lawn every Saturday and read the sports section before the others, the type of father who was gentle enough to hold a monarch126 butterfly between his cupped palms so that Trixie could count the black spots on its wings. But that easygoing man would never have been capable of punching Jason repeatedly, even as Jason was bleeding and begging him to stop. That man had never been so consumed by fury that it twisted his features, made him unfamiliar127.
Trixie decided the answer must be in the part of her father’s life that he never wanted to share. Maybe Daniel Stone had been a whole different person, one who vanished just as Trixie arrived.
She wondered if this was true of every parent: if, prior to having children, they all used to be someone else.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Why am I so different from you?”
“It was a compliment. I was a pain in the ass53 at your age.”
“How?” Trixie asked.
She could see him weighing his words for an example he was willing to offer out loud. “Well, for one thing, I ran away a lot.”
Trixie had run away once, when she was little. She’d walked around the block twice and finally settled in the cool blue shadow beneath a hedgerow in her own backyard. Her father found her there less than an hour later. She expected him to get angry, but instead, he’d crawled underneath128 the bushes and sat beside her. He plucked a dozen of the red berries he was always telling her never to eat and mashed32 them in the palm of his hand. Then he’d painted a rose on her cheek and let her draw stripes across his own. He’d stayed there with her until the sun started to go down and then told her if she was still planning on running away, she might want to get a move on - even though they both knew that by that point, Trixie wasn’t going anywhere.
“When I was twelve,” her father said, “I stole a boat and decided to head down to Quinhagak. There aren’t any roads leading to the tundra129 . . . you come and go by plane or boat. It was October, getting really cold, the end of fishing season. The boat motor quit working, and I started drifting into the Bering Sea. I had no food, only a few matches, and a little bit of gas . . .
when all of a sudden I saw land. It was Nunivak Island, and if I missed it, the next stop was Russia.”
Trixie raised a brow. “You are totally making this up.”
“Swear to God. I paddled like crazy. And just when I realized I had a shot at reaching shore, I saw the breakers. If I made it to the island, the boat was going to get smashed. I duct-taped the gas tank to myself, so that when the boat busted130 up, I’d float.”
This sounded like some extravagant131 survival flashback Trixie’s father would write for one of his comic book characters - she’d read dozens. All this time, she had assumed they were the products of his imagination. After all, those daring deeds hardly matched the father she’d grown up with. But what if he was the superhero? What if the world her father created daily - full of unbelievable feats132 and derring-do and harsh survival - wasn’t something he’d dreamed up but someplace he’d actually lived? She tried to imagine her father bobbing in the world’s roughest, coldest sea, struggling to make it to shore. She tried to picture that boy and then imagine him fully133 grown, a few nights ago, pummeling Jason. “What happened?” Trixie asked.
“A Fish and Game guy who was taking one last look for the year spotted134 the fire I made after I washed up on the island and rescued me,” her father said. “I ran away one or two times each year after that, but I never managed to get very far. It’s like a black hole: People who go to the Alaskan bush disappear from the face of the earth.”
“Why did you want to leave so badly?”
Her father came up to the sink and wrung135 out the sponge. “There was nothing there for me.”
“Then you weren’t really running away,” Trixie said. “You were running toward.”
Her father, though, had stopped listening. He reached over to turn off the water in the sink and grasped her elbows, turning the insides of her arms up to the light.
She’d forgotten about the Band-Aids, which had peeled off in the soapy water. She’d forgotten to not hike up her sleeves. In addition to the gash at her wrist, which had webbed itself with healing skin, her father could see the new cuts she’d made in the shower, the ones that climbed her forearm like a ladder.
“Baby,” her father whispered, “what did you do?”
Trixie’s cheeks burned. The only person who knew about her cutting was Janice the rape counselor96, who’d been ordered out of the house by Trixie’s father a week ago. Trixie had been grateful for that one small cosmic favor: With Janice out of the picture, her secret could stay one. “It’s not what you think. I wasn’t trying to kill myself again. It just... it’s just...” She glanced down at the floor. “It’s how I run away.”
When she finally gathered the courage to look up again, the expression on her father’s face nearly broke her. The monster she’d seen in the parking lot the other night was gone, replaced by the parent she’d trusted her whole life. Ashamed, she tried to pull away from his hold, but he wouldn’t let her. He waited until she tired herself out with her thrashing, the way he used to when she was a toddler. Then he wrapped his arms so tight around Trixie she could barely breathe. That was all it took: She began to cry like she had that morning in the shower, when she had heard about Jason.
“I’m sorry,” Trixie sobbed136 into her father’s shirt. “I’m really sorry.”
They stood together in the kitchen for what felt like hours, with soap bubbles rising around them and dishes as white as bones drying on the wire rack. It was possible, Trixie supposed, that everyone had two faces: Some of us just did a better job of hiding it than others.
Trixie imagined her father jumping into water so cold it stole his breath. She pictured him watching his boat break to pieces around him. She bet that if he’d been asked - even when he was sitting on that island, soaking wet and freezing - he’d tell you he would have done it all over again.
Maybe she was more like her father than he thought.
The secret recipe for Sorrow Pie had been passed down from Laura’s _ great-grandmother to her grandmother to her mother, and although she had no actual recollection of the transfer of information to herself by the time she was eleven she knew the ingredients by heart, knew the careful procedure to make sure the crust didn’t burn and the carrots didn’t dissolve in the broth103, and knew exactly how many bites it would take before the heaviness weighing on the diner’s heart disappeared. Laura knew that the shopping list in and of itself was nothing extraordinary: a chicken, four potatoes, leeks137 more white Han green, pearl onions and whipping cream, bay leaves and basil. it made Sorrow Pie a force to be reckoned with. It was the way you might find the unlikely in any spoonful - a burst of cinnamon mixed with common pepper, lemon peel and vinegar sobering the crust - not to mention the ritual of preparation, which required the cook to look into the cupboard for her ingredients, to cut shortening only with the left hand, and, of course, to season the mixture with a tear of her own.
Daniel was the one who usually cooked, but when desperate measures were called for, Laura would put on an apron138 and pull out her great-grandmother’s stoneware pie plate, the one that turned a different color each time it came out of an oven. She had baked Sorrow Pie for dinner the night Daniel got word of his mother’s death a funeral he would not attend and a woman he had, to Laura’s knowledge, never cried for. She made Sorrow Pie the afternoon Trixie’s parakeet flew into a bathroom mirror and drowned in the toilet. She made it the morning after she’d first slept with Seth.
Today, when she had gone to the grocery store to gather the ingredients, she found herself standing in the middle of the baking goods aisle with her mind blank. The recipe, which had always been as familiar to her as her own name, had been wiped out of her memory. She could not have said whether cardamom was part of the spice regimen, or if it was coriander. She completely forgot to buy eggs.
It was no easier when Laura came home and took out a stew139 pot.
only to find herself wondering what on earth she was supposed to put inside it. Frustrated140, she made herself sit down at the kitchen table and write what she remembered of the recipe, aware that there were huge gaps and missing ingredients. Her mother, who’d died when Laura was twenty-two, had told her that writing the recipe down was a good way to have it stolen; Laura hated to think that this magic would end with her own carelessness.
It was while she was staring at the blanks on the page that Trixie came downstairs. “What are you making?” she asked, surveying the hodgepodge of ingredients on the kitchen counter. “Sorrow Pie,” Laura answered.
Trixie frowned. “You’re missing the vinegar. And the carrots.
At half the spices.” She backed into the pantry and began to pull jars. “Not to mention the chicken.” The chicken. How had Laura forgotten that? Trixie took a mixing bowl out and began to measure the flour and baking powder for the crust. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s, do you?” Laura couldn’t remember ever teaching her daughter the way to make Sorrow Pie, yet here Trixie was passing the whisk to her left hand and closing her eyes as she poured the milk. Laura got up from the kitchen table and started peeling the pearl onions she’d bought, only to forget why she’d begun when she was halfway through.
She was too busy recalling the look on Daniel’s face when he’d finished his first serving, after hearing of his mother’s death.
How the deep vertical lines between his eyes smoothed clear, how his hands stopped shaking. She was thinking of how many helpings141 this family would need to come close to approximating normal. She was wondering how her mother never thought it important enough to tell her that missing a step might have grave consequences, not only for the person dining but also for the chef.
The phone rang when they had just finished putting the top crust on the pie and painting their initials across it in vanilla142.
“It’s Zeph,” Trixie told Laura. “Can you hang up while I go upstairs?” She handed Laura the phone, and moments later, Laura heard her pick up an extension. As tempted143 as Laura was to listen, she hung up. When she turned around, she noticed the pie, ready and waiting to be baked.
It was as if it had been dropped down onto the counter from above. “Well,” she said out loud, and she shrugged. She lifted it up to slide it into the oven.
An hour later, when the pie was cooling, Laura hovered144 in front of it. She had intended this to be supper but found herself digging for a fork. What was just a taste became a bite; what started as a bite turned into a mouthful. She stuffed her cheeks; she burned her tongue. She ate until there were no crumbs145 left in the baking dish, until every last carrot and clove146 and butter bean had disappeared. And still she was hungry.
Until that moment, she’d forgotten this about Sorrow Pie, too: No matter how much you consumed, you would not have your fill.
When Venice Prudhomme saw Bartholemew walking into her lab, she told him no before he’d even asked his question. Whatever he wanted, she couldn’t do it. She’d rushed the date rape drug test for him, and that was difficult enough, but the lab was in transition, moving from an eight-locus DNA system to a sixteen-locus system, and their usual backlog147 had grown to enormous proportions.
Just hear me out, he’d said, and he started begging.
Venice had listened, arms crossed. I thought this was a rape case.
It was. Until the rapist died, and suicide didn’t check out.
What makes you think you ‘ve got the right perp ? It’s the rape victim’s father, Bartholemew had said. If your kid was raped, what would you want to do to the guy who did it? In the end, Venice still said no. It would take a while for her to do a full DNA test, even one that she put at the top of the pile. But something in his desperation must have struck her, because she told him that she could at least give him a head start. She’d been part of the validation148 team for a portion of the sixteen-locus system and still had some leftovers149 from her kit5.
The DNA extraction process was the same; she’d be able to use that sample to run the other loci once the lab came up for some air.
Bartholemew fell asleep waiting for her to complete the test.
At four in the morning, Venice knelt beside him and shook him awake. “You want the good news or the bad news?” He sighed. “Good.” “I got your results.” That was excellent news. The medical examiner had already told Bartholemew that the dirt and river silt150 on the victim’s hand might have contaminated the blood to the point where DNA testing was impossible due to dropout151. “What’s the bad news?” “You’ve got the wrong suspect.” Mike stared at her. “How can you tell? I haven’t even given you a control sample from Daniel Stone yet.” “Maybe the kid who got raped wanted revenge even more than her dad did.” Venice pushed the results toward him. “I did an amelogenin test . . . it’s the one we run on nuclear DNA to determine gender152. And the guy who left your drop of blood behind?” Venice glanced up. “He’s a girl.” Zephyr gave Trixie the details. The service was at two o’clock at the Bethel Methodist Church, followed by an interment ceremony at the Westwind Cemetery153. She said that school was closing early, that’s how many people were planning on attending. The six juniors on the hockey team had been asked to serve as pallbearers. In memoriam, three senior girls had dyed their hair black.
Trixie’s plan was simple: She was going to sleep through Jason’s funeral, even if she had to swallow a whole bottle of NyQuil to do it. She pulled the shades in her room, creating an artificial night, and crawled under her covers - only to have them yanked down a moment later.
You don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook, do you? She knew he was standing there before she even opened her eyes.
Jason leaned against her dresser, one elbow already morphing through the wood. His eyes had faded almost entirely154; all Trixie could see were holes as deep as the sky.
“The whole town’s going,” Trixie whispered. “You won’t notice if I’m not there.” Jason sat down on top of the covers. What about you, Trix? Will you notice when I’m not here? She turned onto her side, willing him to go away. But instead she felt him curl up behind her, spooning, his words falling over her ear like frost. If you don’t come, he whispered, how will you know I’m really gone? She felt him disappear a little while after that, taking all the extra air in the room. Finally, gasping155, Trixie got out of bed and threw open the three windows in her bedroom. It was twenty degrees outside, and the wind whipped at the curtains. She stood in front of one window and watched people in dark suits and black dresses exit their houses, their cars being drawn156 like magnets past Trixie’s house.
Trixie peeled off her clothes and stood shivering in her closet. What was the right outfit157 to wear to the funeral of the only boy you’d ever loved? Sackcloth and ashes, a ring of thorns, regret? What she needed was an invisibility cloak, like the kind her father sometimes drew for his comic book heroes, something sheer that would keep everyone from pointing fingers and whispering that this was all her fault.
The only dress Trixie owned in a dark color had short sleeves, so she picked out a pair of black pants and paired it with a navy cardigan. She’d have to wear boots anyway, because of all the snow, and they’d look stupid with a skirt. She didn’t know if she could do this - stand at Jason’s grave while people passed his name around like a box of sweets - but she did know that if she stayed in her room during this funeral, as she’d planned to, it would all come back to haunt her.
She glanced around her room again, checking the top of the dresser and under the bed and in her desk drawers for something she knew was missing, but in the end, she had to leave without her courage or risk being late.
During her studies of rebellion, Trixie had learned which floorboards in the hallway screamed like traitors158 and which ones would keep a secret. The trickiest159 one was right in front of her father’s office door - she sometimes wondered if he’d had the builder do that on purpose, thinking ahead. To get past him without making any noise, Trixie had to edge along the inside wall of the house, then slide in a diagonal and hope she didn’t crash into the banister. From there, it was just a matter of avoiding the third and seventh stairs, and she was home free. She could take the bus that stopped three blocks away from her house, ride it downtown, and then walk to the church.
Her father’s office door was closed. Trixie took a deep breath, crept, slid, and hopped her way silently down the stairs. The floor of the mudroom looked like the scene of a dismemberment: a mess of scattered160 boots and discarded jackets and tossed gloves. Trixie pulled what she needed from the pile, wrapped a scarf around the lower half of her face, and gingerly opened the door.
Her father was sitting in his truck with the motor running, as if he’d been waiting for her all along. As soon as he saw her exiting the house, he unrolled the power window. “Hop in.” Trixie approached the truck and peered inside. “Where are you going?” Her father reached over and opened the door for her. “Same place you are.” As he twisted in his seat to back out of the driveway, Trixie could see the collared shirt and tie he was wearing under his winter jacket.
They drove in silence for two blocks. Then, finally, she asked, “How come you want to go?” “I don’t.” Trixie watched the swirling161 snow run away from their tires to settle in the safe center of the divided highway. Dots between painted dashes, they spelled out in Morse code the unspoken rest of her father’s sentence: But you do.
Laura sat in the student center, wishing she was even an eighth as smart as the advice ladies who wrote “Annie’s Mailbox.” They knew all the answers, it seemed, without even trying.
In the days after Jason’s death, she’d become addicted162 to the column, craving163 it as much as her morning cup of coffee. My daughterin-law started her marriage as a size four, and now she’s plus plus plus. She’s a wonderful person, but her health is a concern for me. I’ve given her books and exercise videos, but none of it helps. What can I do? Skinny in Savannah My 14-year-old son has started replacing his boxer164 shorts with silky thong165 underwear he found in a catalog. Is this a style that hasn’t hit my hometown yet, or should I be worried about cross-dressing? Nervous in Nevada On her deathbed, my great-aunt just confided166 a secret to me - that my mother was born as the result of an extramarital affair.
Do I tell my mother I know the truth? Confused in California Lauras obsession167 grew in part from the fact that she was not the only one walking around with questions. Some of the letters were frivolous168, some cut through her heart. All of them hinted at a universal truth: At any crossroads in life, half of us are destined169 to take a wrong turn.
She opened the newspaper to the right page, skimming past the Marmaduke cartoon and the crossword170 puzzle to find the advice column, and nearly spilled her cup of coffee. I’ve been having an affair. It’s over, and I’m sorry it ever happened. I want to tell my husband so that I can start fresh. Should I? Repentant171 in Rochester Laura had to remind herself to breathe.
We can’t say this enough, the advice columnists172 answered. What people don’t know can’t hurt them. You’ve already done your spouse173 a great disservice. Do you really think it’s fair to cause him pain, just so you can clear your conscience? Be a big girl, they wrote. Actions have consequences.
Her heart was pounding so hard she looked up, certain that everyone in the room would be staring.
She had been careful not to ask herself the question she should have: If Trixie hadn’t gotten raped, if Daniel hadn’t called her office the night she’d been breaking off her affair with Seth - would she ever have confessed? Would she have kept it to herself, a stone in her soul, a cancer clouding her memory? What people don’t know can’t hurt them.
The problem with coming clean was that you thought you were clearing the slate, starting over, but it never quite worked that way. You didn’t erase174 what you’d done. As Laura knew now, the stain would still be there, every time he looked at you, before he remembered to hide the disappointment in his eyes.
Laura thought of what she had not told Daniel, the things he had not told her. The best decisions in a marriage were based not on honesty but on the number of casualties that the truth might cause, versus175 the number saved by ignorance.
With great care, she folded the edge of the newspaper and ripped it gently along the crease176. She did this until the advice column had been entirely cut out. Then she folded the article and slipped it under the strap of her bra. The ink smudged on Laura’s fingers, the way it sometimes did when she read the paper. She imagined a tattoo177 that might go through flesh and bone and blood to reach her heart - a warning, a reminder178 not to make the same mistake.
“Ready?” Daniel asked.
Trixie had been sitting in the truck for five minutes, watching townspeople crowd into the tiny Methodist church. The principal had gone in, as well as the town manager and the selectmen. Two local television stations were broadcasting from the steps of the church, with anchors Daniel recognized from the evening news.
“Yes,” Trixie said, but she made no move to get out of the truck.
Daniel pulled the keys out of the ignition and got out of the truck. He walked around to the passenger door and opened it, unbuckling Trixie’s seat belt just like he used to when she was a baby. He held her hand as she stepped out, into the shock of the cold.
They took three steps. “Daddy,” she said, stopping, “what if I can’t do this?” Her hesitation179 made him want to carry her back to the truck, hide her so securely that no one would ever hurt her again. But - as he’d learned the hard way - that wasn’t possible.
He slid an arm around her waist. “Then I’ll do it for you,” he said, and he guided her up the steps of the church, past the shocked wide eyes of the television cameras, through an obstacle course of hissed180 whispers, to the place where she needed to be.
For a single moment, the focus of everyone in the church swung from the boy in the lily-draped coffin to the girl walking through the double doors.
Outside, left alone, Mike Bartholemew emerged from behind a potbellied oak and crouched beside the trail of boot prints that Daniel and Trixie Stone had left in the snow. He lay a ruler down beside the best print of the smaller track and took a camera from his pocket for a few snapshots. Then he sprayed the print with aerosol wax and let the red skin dry on the snow before he spread dental stone to make a cast.
By the time the mourners adjourned181 to their cars to caravan182 to the cemetery for the interment service, Bartholemew was headed back to the police department, hoping to match Trixie Stone’s boot to the mystery print left in the snow on the bridge where Jason Underhill had died.
“Blessed are those who mourn,” said the minister, “for they will be comforted.” Trixie pressed herself more firmly against the back wall of the church. From here, she was completely blocked by the rest of the people who’d come for Jason’s memorial service. She didn’t have to stare at the gleaming coffin. She didn’t have to see Mrs.
Underhill, slumped183 against her husband.
“Friends, we gather here to comfort and support each other in this time of loss . . . but most of all we come here to remember and celebrate the mortal life of Jason Adam Underhill and his blessed future at the side of our Lord Jesus Christ.” The minister’s words were punctuated184 by the tight coughs of men who’d promised themselves they wouldn’t cry and the quicksilver hiccups185 of the women who’d known better than to make a promise they couldn’t keep.
“Jason was one of those golden boys that the sun seemed to follow. Today, we remember him for the way he could make us laugh with a joke and the devotion he applied186 to everything he did.
We remember him as a loving son and grandson, a caring cousin, a steadfast187 friend. We remember him as a gifted athlete and a diligent188 student. But most of all we remember him because Jason, in the short time we had with him, managed to touch each and every one of us.” The first time Jason touched Trixie, they were in his car, and he was illegally teaching her how to drive. You have to let up on the clutch while you shift, he explained, as she’d jerked the little Toyota around an empty parking lot. Maybe I should just wait until I’m sixteen, Trixie had said when she’d stalled for the bazillionth time. Jason had laced his fingers between hers on the stick shift, guiding her through the motions, until all she could think about was the temperature of his hand heating hers. Then Jason had grinned at her. Why wait? The minister’s voice grew like a vine. “In Lamentations 3, we hear these words: My soul is bereft189 of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, ‘Gone is my glory, and all that I had hoped for from the Lord.’ We, whom Jason left behind, must wonder if these were the thoughts that weighed heavy on his heart, that led him to believe there was no other way out.” Trixie closed her eyes. She had lost her virginity in a field of lupine behind the ice rink, where the Zamboni shavings were dumped, an artificial winter smack190 in the middle of the September flowers. Jason had borrowed the key from the rinkmaster and taken her skating after the rink was closed for the day. He’d laced up her skates and told her to close her eyes. Then he’d reached for her hands, skating backward so fast she felt like she was falling to earth. We’re writing in cursive, he told her as he pulled in a straight line. Can you read it? Then he looped the breadth of the rink, skated a circle, a right angle, a tinier loop, finishing with a curl. I LOVE U? Trixie had recited, and Jason had laughed.
Close enough, he’d said. Later, in that field, with the pile of snow hiding them from sight, Jason had again been moving at lightning speed, and Trixie could not quite keep up. When he pushed inside her, she turned her head to watch the lupine tremble on their shivering stems, so that he wouldn’t realize he’d hurt her.
“In the past few days, you who are Jason’s family and friends have been struggling with the questions that surround his death.
You are feeling a fraction of the pain, maybe, that Jason felt in those last, dark hours. You might be reliving the last time you spoke to him. You might be wondering, Is there anything I should have said or done that I didn’t? That might have made a difference?” Trixie suddenly saw Jason holding her down on Zephyr’s white living room carpet. If she’d been brave enough to peek191 that night, would she have seen the bruises blooming on his jaw, the smile rotting off his face? “Into your hands, O Savior, we commend your servant Jason Underhill. We pray for you to recognize this child of yours . . .” His breath fell onto her lips, but he tasted of worms. His fingers bit so hard into her wrists that she looked down and saw only his bones, as the flesh peeled away from him.
“Receive him into your never-ending mercy. Grant him everlasting192 peace, and eternal life in your light.” Trixie tried to swim back to the minister’s words. She craved193 light, too, but all she could see were the black and blue stripes of the nights when Jason came to haunt her. Or maybe she was seeing the nights when she had gone to him willingly. It was all mixed up now. She couldn’t separate the real Jason from the ghost; she couldn’t untangle what she’d wanted from what she didn’t.
Maybe it had always been like that.
The scream started so deep inside of her that she thought it was just a resonance194, like a tuning195 fork that could not stop trembling Trixie didn’t realize that the sound spilled through her seams, over flowing, bearing Jason’s coffin like a tide and sweeping196 it off its stanchions. She didn’t know that she’d fallen to her knees, and that every single eye in the congregation was on her, as it had been before the service began. And she didn’t trust herself to believe that the savior the minister had been summoning had reached through the very roof of the church and carried her outside where she could breathe again - not until she found the courage to open her eyes and found herself safe and away, cradled in her father’s arms.
Trixie’s boot prints matched. Unfortunately, they were Sorels, which accounted for a large portion of all winter footwear sold in the state of Maine. They had no telltale crack of the sole, or a tack197 stuck into the rubber, to prove without any considerable doubt that it was Trixie’s particular boot that had been on that bridge the night Jason Underhill had died, as opposed to anyone else who wore a size seven and happened to favor the same footwear.
As a rape victim, she had the motive26 to be a suspect. But a boot print alone - one that hundreds of townspeople shared - wouldn’t be enough probable cause to convince a judge to swear out a warrant for Trixie’s arrest.
“Ernie, get out of there,” Bartholemew said, scolding the potbellied pig he’d brought out for a walk. To be perfectly198 honest, it wasn’t wholly professional to bring a pig to a crime scene, but he’d been working round the clock and couldn’t leave Ernestine at home alone any longer. He figured as long as he kept her away from the area that had been cordoned199 off by the techs, it was all right.
“Not near the water,” Bartholemew called. The pig glanced at him and scooted down the riverbank. “Fine,” he said. “Go drown.
See if I care.” But all the same, Bartholemew leaned over the railing of the bridge to watch the pig walk along the edge of the river. The spot where Jason’s body had broken the ice was frozen again, more translucent200 than the rest. A fluorescent201 orange flag stapled202 to a stake marked the northern edge of the crime scene.
Laura Stone’s alibi203 had checked out: Phone records put her at the college, and then back at her residence. But several witnesses had noticed both Daniel and Trixie Stone at the Winterfest. One driver had even seen them both, in a parking lot, with Jason Underhill.
Trixie could have murdered Jason, in spite of the size difference between them. Jason had been drunk, and a well-placed shove might have tumbled him over the bridge. It wouldn’t account for Jason’s bruised204 and fractured face, but Bartholemew didn’t hold Trixie responsible for that. Most likely, it had gone down this way: Jason saw Trixie in town and started to talk to her, but Daniel Stone stumbled onto their encounter. He beat the guy to a pulp205, Jason ran off, and Trixie followed him to the bridge.
Bartholemew had believed, initially206, that Daniel had lied about not seeing Jason in town that night, and that Trixie had told him about the fight to cover for her father. But what if it had been the other way around? What if Trixie had told the truth, and Daniel - knowing that his daughter had been in contact with Jason already that night - had lied to protect her? Suddenly Ernestine began to root, her snout burrowing207. God only knew what she’d found - the most she’d ever turned up was a dead mouse that had crawled under the foundation of his garage. He watched with mild interest as she created a pile of dirty snow behind her.
Then something winked208 at him.
Bartholemew slid down the steep grade of the riverbank, slipped on a plastic glove from his pocket, and pulled a man’s wristwatch out of the snow behind Ernestine.
It was an Eddie Bauer watch with a royal blue face and a woven canvas band. The buckle209 was missing. Bartholemew squinted up at the bridge, trying to imagine the trajectory210 and the distance from there to here. Could Jason’s arm have struck the railing and snapped the buckle? The medical examiner had found splinters in the boy’s fingers - had he lost his watch while he was desperately211 trying to hang on? He took out his cell phone and dialed the medical examiner’s number. “It’s Bartholemew,” he said when Anjali answered. “Did Jason Underhill wear a watch?” “He wasn’t brought in wearing one.” “I just found one at the crime scene. Is there any way to tell if it’s his?” “Hang on.” Bartholemew heard her rummage85 through papers. “I’ve got the autopsy photos here. On the left wrist, there’s a band of skin that’s a bit lighter212 than the rest of his arm’s skin tone.
Why don’t you see if the parents recognize it?” “That’s my next stop,” Bartholemew said. “Thanks.” As he hung up and started to slide the watch into a plastic evidence bag, he noticed something he hadn’t seen at first - a hair had gotten caught around the little knob used to set the time.
It was about an inch long, and coarse. There seemed to be a root attached, as if it had been yanked out.
Mike thought of Jason’s all-American good looks, of his dark hair and blue eyes. He held the watch up against the white canvas of his own dress shirt sleeve for comparison. In such stark213 relief, the hair was as red as a sunset, as red as shame, as red as any other hair on Trixie Stone’s head.
“Twice in one week?” Daniel said, opening the door to find Detective Bartholemew standing on the porch again. “I must have won the lottery214.” Daniel was still wearing his button-down shirt from the funeral, although he’d stripped off the tie and left it noosed215 around one of the kitchen chairs. He could feel the detective surveying the house over his right shoulder.
“You got a minute, Mr. Stone?” Bartholemew asked. “And actually ... is Trixie here? It would be great if she could sit down with us.” “She’s asleep,” Daniel said. “We went to Jason’s funeral, and she got pretty upset there. When we got home, she went straight to bed.” “What about your wife?” “She’s at the college. Guess I’m it for right now.” He led Bartholemew into the living room and sat across from him. “I wouldn’t have expected you to attend Jason Underhill’s funeral,” the detective said.
“It was Trixie’s idea. I think she was looking for closure.” “You said she got upset during the service?” “I think it was too much for her, emotionally.” Daniel hesitated. “You didn’t come here to ask about this, did you?” The detective shook his head. “Mr. Stone, on the night of the Winterfest, you said you never ran into Jason. But Trixie told me that you and Jason had a fistfight.” Daniel felt the blood drain from his face. When had Bartholemew talked to Trixie? “Am I supposed to assume that your daughter was lying?” “No, I was,” Daniel said. “I was afraid you’d charge me with assault.” “Trixie also told me that Jason ran off.” “That’s right.” “Did she follow him, Mr. Stone?” Daniel blinked. “What?” “Did she follow Jason Underhill to the bridge?” He pictured the light of the turning car washing over them, and the minute Jason wrenched216 away. He heard himself calling for Trixie and realizing she wasn’t there. “Of course not,” he said.
“That’s interesting. Because I’ve got boot prints, and blood, and hair that puts her at the crime scene.” “What crime scene?” Daniel said. “Jason Underhill committed suicide.” The detective just lifted his gaze. Daniel thought of the hour he’d spent searching for Trixie after she’d run away. He remembered the cuts he’d seen on Trixie’s arms the day she was washing the dishes, scratches he’d assumed had been made by her own hand, and not someone else’s, trying desperately to hold on.
Daniel had bequeathed Trixie his dimples, his long fingers, his photographic memory. But what about the other markers of heredity? Could a parent pass along the gene217 for revenge, for rage, for escape? Could a trait he’d buried so long ago resurface where he least expected it: in his daughter? “I’d really like to speak to Trixie,” Bartholemew said.
“She didn’t kill Jason.” “Terrific,” the detective replied. “Then she won’t mind giving us a blood sample to compare with the physical evidence, so that we can rule her out.” He clasped his hands together between his knees. “Why don’t you see if she’s about ready to wake up?” Although Daniel knew life didn’t work this way, he truly believed that he had the chance to save his daughter the way he hadn’t been able to save her the night she was raped, as if there were some running cosmic tally92 of victory and defeat. He could get a lawyer. He could spirit her away to Fiji or Guadalcanal or somewhere they’d never be found. He could do whatever was necessary; he just needed to formulate218 a plan.
The first step was to talk to her before the detective did.
After convincing Bartholemew to wait in the living room - Trixie was, after all, still scared of her own shadow half the time - Daniel headed upstairs. He was shaking, terrified with what he would say to Trixie, even more terrified to hear her response.
With every step up the stairs, he thought of escape routes: the attic219, his bedroom balcony. Sheets knotted together and tossed out a window.
Daniel decided he’d ask her point-blank, when she was too wrapped in the silver veil of sleep to dissemble. Depending on her answer, he’d either take her down to Bartholemew to prove the detective wrong, or he’d carry Trixie to the far ends of the earth himself.
The door to Trixie’s room was still closed; with his ear pressed against it, Daniel heard nothing but silence.
After they had come home from the funeral, Daniel had sat on Trixie’s bed with her curled in his lap, the way he had once held her during bouts220 of stomach flu, rubbing her belly221 or her back until she slipped over the fine line of sleep. Now he turned the knob slowly, hoping to wake Trixie up by degrees.
The first thing Daniel noticed was how cold it was. The second was the window, wide open.
The room looked like the aftermath of a tropical storm. Clothes lay trampled222 on the floor. Sheets were balled at the foot of the bed. Makeup, looseleaf papers, and magazines had been dumped - the contents of a missing knapsack. Her toothbrush and hairbrush were gone. And the little clay jar where Trixie kept her cash was empty.
Had Trixie heard the detective downstairs? Had she left before Bartholemew even arrived? She was only a teenager; how far could she get? Daniel moved to the window and traced the zigzag223 track of her flight on the snow from her room to the sloped roof, to the maple224 tree’s outstretched arm, across the lawn to bare pavement, at which point she simply disappeared. He thought of her words to him, a day before, when he’d seen the cuts on her arm: It’s how I run away.
Frantic225, he stared at the icy roof. She could have killed herself.
And on the heels of that thought: She still might.
What if Trixie managed to get someplace where, when she tried to swallow pills or cut her wrists or sleep in a cloud of carbon monoxide, nobody stopped her? A person was never who you thought he was. It was true for him; maybe it was true for Trixie too. Maybe - in spite of what he wanted to believe, in spite of what he hoped - she had killed Jason.
What if Daniel wasn’t the first one to find her? What if he was?
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1
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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3
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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9
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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10
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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14
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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16
aerosol
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| n.悬浮尘粒，气溶胶，烟雾剂，喷雾器 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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18
investigators
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| n.调查者，审查者( investigator的名词复数 ) | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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taxpayers
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| 纳税人，纳税的机构( taxpayer的名词复数 ) | |
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incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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28
forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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29
decomposing
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| 腐烂( decompose的现在分词 )； （使）分解； 分解（某物质、光线等） | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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autopsy
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| n.尸体解剖；尸检 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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memo
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| n.照会，备忘录；便笺；通知书；规章 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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39
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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40
slivered
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| 使成薄片（sliver的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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detergent
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| n.洗涤剂；adj.有洗净力的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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46
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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47
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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48
navigated
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的过去式和过去分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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49
raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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50
checkout
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| n.（超市等）收银台，付款处 | |
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51
lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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52
wart
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| n.疣，肉赘；瑕疵 | |
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53
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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54
coconut
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| n.椰子 | |
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55
elastics
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| n.松紧带，橡皮圈( elastic的名词复数 ) | |
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56
incision
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| n．切口，切开 | |
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57
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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58
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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59
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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grudgingly
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61
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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62
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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63
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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64
acceleration
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| n.加速，加速度 | |
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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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66
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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67
trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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68
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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69
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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70
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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71
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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72
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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73
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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74
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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75
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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76
slivers
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| （切割或断裂下来的）薄长条，碎片( sliver的名词复数 ) | |
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77
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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78
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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80
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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81
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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82
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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83
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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84
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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85
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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86
cellular
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| adj.移动的；细胞的，由细胞组成的 | |
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87
shortcut
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| n.近路，捷径 | |
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88
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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89
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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flipping
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| 讨厌之极的 | |
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91
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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92
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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93
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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95
anorexia
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| n.厌食症 | |
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96
counselor
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| n.顾问，法律顾问 | |
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97
counselors
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| n.顾问( counselor的名词复数 )；律师；（使馆等的）参赞；（协助学生解决问题的）指导老师 | |
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98
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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99
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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100
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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101
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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102
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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103
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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104
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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105
delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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106
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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107
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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108
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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109
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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110
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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111
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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112
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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113
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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114
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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115
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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116
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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117
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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118
DNA
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| (缩)deoxyribonucleic acid 脱氧核糖核酸 | |
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119
saliva
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| n.唾液，口水 | |
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120
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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121
deterrent
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|
| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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122
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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123
pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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124
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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125
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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127
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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128
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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129
tundra
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| n.苔原，冻土地带 | |
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130
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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131
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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132
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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133
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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134
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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135
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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136
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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137
leeks
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| 韭葱( leek的名词复数 ) | |
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138
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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139
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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140
frustrated
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|
| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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141
helpings
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| n.（食物）的一份( helping的名词复数 )；帮助，支持 | |
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142
vanilla
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| n.香子兰，香草 | |
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143
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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144
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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145
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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146
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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147
backlog
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| n.积压未办之事 | |
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148
validation
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| n.确认 | |
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149
leftovers
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| n.剩余物，残留物，剩菜 | |
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150
silt
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|
| n.淤泥，淤沙，粉砂层，泥沙层；vt.使淤塞；vi.被淤塞 | |
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151
dropout
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| n.退学的学生；退学；退出者 | |
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152
gender
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| n.（生理上的）性，（名词、代词等的）性 | |
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153
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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154
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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155
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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156
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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157
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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158
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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159
trickiest
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|
| adj.狡猾的( tricky的最高级 )；（形势、工作等）复杂的；机警的；微妙的 | |
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160
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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161
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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162
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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163
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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164
boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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165
thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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166
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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167
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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168
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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169
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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170
crossword
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| n.纵横字谜，纵横填字游戏 | |
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171
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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172
columnists
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| n.专栏作家( columnist的名词复数 ) | |
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173
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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174
erase
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|
| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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175
versus
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| prep.以…为对手，对；与…相比之下 | |
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176
crease
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|
| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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177
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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178
reminder
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|
| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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179
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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180
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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181
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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183
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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184
punctuated
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|
| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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185
hiccups
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| n.嗝( hiccup的名词复数 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿v.嗝( hiccup的第三人称单数 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿 | |
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186
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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187
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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188
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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189
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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190
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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191
peek
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| vi.偷看，窥视；n.偷偷的一看，一瞥 | |
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192
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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193
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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194
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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195
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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196
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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197
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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198
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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199
cordoned
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| v.封锁，用警戒线围住( cordon的过去式 ) | |
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200
translucent
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|
| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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201
fluorescent
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| adj.荧光的，发出荧光的 | |
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202
stapled
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| v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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204
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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205
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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206
initially
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| adv.最初，开始 | |
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207
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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208
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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209
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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210
trajectory
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| n.弹道，轨道 | |
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211
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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212
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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213
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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214
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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215
noosed
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| v.绞索，套索( noose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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217
gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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218
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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219
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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220
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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221
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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222
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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223
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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224
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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