Killer Summer, Lynda Curnyn [books suggested by bill gates .txt] 📗

what I did was load them into the dishwasher. I probably should have hidden in my room at that point, but Tom’s avoidance of the topic of Maggie only made me more curious. Besides, cleaning up was the least I could do. He did cook for me tonight, I thought, rinsing off the last plate and sliding it into the crowded washer. I opened the top rack and was just trying to figure out a way to jam the two wineglasses in, when Tom came back.

“Those need to be washed by hand,” he said.

“Oh,” 1 replied, smiling tentatively at him as I closed the dishwasher and turned to the sink to soap up the first glass.

I felt him watching me as I hurriedly rinsed off the glass, placing it on the counter to dry.

But then I realized he had only been waiting for the glass when he picked it up and proceeded to polish it dry with the towel.

I almost laughed. That was Tom. Ever efficient. I had, at least, learned that about him in the past few weeks, I thought, placing the second glass on the counter when I was done and watching as he snatched it up and started polishing away.

Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, he grabbed both glasses and headed to the living room to put them away in the bar.

I was just drying my hands and contemplating how I could safely return the conversation to the night of Maggie’s death when I heard the sound of shattering glass.

“Goddammit!” he yelled.

Janis lifted her head and let out a little whine.

I stepped into the living room to see Tom stooped over, picking up the pieces of the glass he had dropped. “I’ll help you with that,” I said, dashing back to the kitchen and retrieving the dustpan and brush from under the sink.

I handed him the items, and without even so much as a glance at me, he grabbed them out of my hands, his movements brisk as he brushed the remaining pieces on to the dustpan, then stood to dump them in the garbage pail in the kitchen.

Uh-oh. He seemed pretty pissed off.

Which was why I was shocked when he finished his task and turned to me with tears—tears!—glittering in his eyes.

“Tom? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he said, leaning over to put the dustpan and brush away. Once he stood again, I watched as he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He wasn’t fine. Far from it, I realized when he let out a sob so deep I felt an answering ache in my throat.

Even Janis began to howl.

Tom didn’t seem to notice, his shoulders shaking as he fought the sudden wave of emotion now clearly moving through him.

“Tom,” I said, reaching out tentatively to touch him, then pulling my hand back. I didn’t know what to do. So I turned to Janis. “Shhhhh,” I soothed, though I felt far from soothing at the moment. Janis must have sensed my alarm, because she immediately settled down, her head going to rest on her paws, her eyes on Tom.

I turned to Tom once more. “Maybe you ought to sit down,” I said. Then I did take his hand, leading him to the sofa to sit.

My actions seemed to settle him a bit more, though the tears still streamed down his cheeks. I made a quick dash to the bathroom, grabbed a box of tissues, and returned.

“Here,” I said, holding out the box to him.

He reached for a tissue, dabbing at his eyes and then blowing his nose. When he looked up again, I saw his tears had abated, his eyes filled with something close to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” I said, sitting down beside him.

He shook his head. “I don’t know what came over me.” He let out a shuddery sigh, his gaze moving to the row of wineglasses lining the bar. “Maggie and I got those glasses as a wedding gift,” he said softly. “I told her I didn’t want to keep them here. They’re so fragile.” He shuddered again.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” I said, mostly because I didn’t know what else to say. I was still bowled over by his sudden display of emotion.

“We already broke two of them last year,” he said, still staring at the glasses. Then he turned to me, fresh tears moving into his eyes. “Now there’s hardly anything left. Of us.”

Then I did hug him, my hand moving soothingly over his back as he unleashed a fresh wave of sorrow. I was surprised when I felt tears sting my own eyes, realizing they were tears of sympathy. For Tom.

I made an even bigger discovery after I helped a bleary-eyed and unusually docile Tom into bed. Just as I was about to shut the lights and make my exit, I noticed the closet door hung open.

Glancing back at Tom, I realized he had probably conked out the minute his head hit the pillow. He was already starting to snore.

I didn’t blame him, after the night he’d had. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could blame him for anything anymore.

But since I was certain someone was to blame for Maggie’s death, I turned to the closet, opening the door the rest of the way and studying the contents.

I needed to find that dress. I wasn’t sure what it would tell me— still, it had to be more than I already knew. But after rilling through Tom’s lonely little collection of trousers and shirts, I discovered it wasn’t there. Frustrated, I closed the door, taking another quick glance at Tom, who let out a snort that nearly made me jump out of my skin. I walked over to the chest of drawers on the other side of the bed and slid open the top one. Socks and underwear. Tom’s underwear. I closed it quickly, as if I had just walked in on Tom in his underwear. I moved to the next one—more T-shirts and polo shirts. Then the fourth, which