Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

the school board and that sort of thing, instead of working the crime beat."
    "Good. You know I never wanted you to mess around in all that murder and stuff. I love this city, but it's really gone to hell ever since—"
    "How are your parents?" she asked, before he could rant about crime and taxes and the lower class.
    "My parents are doing really well. They're up at Martha's Vineyard right now." At one of their four seasonal houses. Christmas in Boca Raton, Easter in Santa Monica, Fourth of July in Boulder, slumming in Yankee country through Halloween.
    "Tell them I said hello."
    "Sure. You know, they'd love to hear from you. They ask about you all the time. You’re practically family, you know."
    "Maybe I'll give them a call," she lied. If she called, they'd use the M-word. Every woman needed a diamond for validation, and a gold ring to seal the deal. That was as certain as the rising sun, increasing property taxes, and Mitchell's cologne being made by Jovan.
    "So, how's your new doctor?"
    "Good. Really good. We're making progress."
    Mitchell sighed. "You were making progress four years ago, with Lance what's-his-name."
    Mitchell hid his jealousy so poorly. He assumed that any man that got a woman on the couch was automatically on top of her within fifteen minutes.
    No, only YOU, Mitchell . Besides, nobody lies down for therapy anymore. That went out with assembly-line frontal lobotomies and Mesmerism.
    She said, "I feel like we're close to a breakthrough. I'm feeling much better. I don't . . . ."
    — get the Creeps? —
    " . . . suffer from as much anxiety. I think the mountains are helping me. They make me feel safe."
    To his credit, Mitchell didn't laugh. "If you'd let me buy you a gun—"
    "Are the leaves changing there?"
    "Leaves?"
    "On the trees."
    "Hold on. Let me look."
    "Never mind."
    "When are you going to let me come see you?"
    "Soon."
    "How soon? You said August. It's already football season."
    "Soon," she repeated. "I just  . . . want to be ready, that's all."
    She could almost hear his thoughts, see his handsome eyebrows raised in perplexity. Women. Why can't they make up their minds? If I have to wait for Julia to get her head together, I'll be old and gray and Mr. Happy won't be able to jump up and do his little dance of joy anymore.
    "You know I love you, Julia."
    She nodded at the phone. Her eyes were fixed down the hallway, on the bedroom entrance. The handyman had left the door open, but he must have closed the curtains because the room was dark. She thought again of the clock and those red numerals stuck on 4:06.
    The handyman had seen those numerals. But she had unplugged the clock. She was sure, just as she'd been sure she'd locked the door.
    The handyman had also seen the blocks lying near her feet. Those weren't imaginary, either.
    "Julia?"
    "Yeah?" She realized she was still holding the phone.
    "I said I love you."
    "I know you do."
    "Well?"
    "Me, too. I . . . love you."
    Then it started, at that brief hesitation. The slightly perceptible lift, the higher pitch to his voice. The calm before the storm. Those who dealt with Mitchell Austin in the courtroom knew only the calm, never the storm. "When are you going to start thinking about us again, and not just yourself?"
    "I'm making progress. Dr. Forrest is really good. I'm—"
    "Please. Spare me the details."
    "Mitchell—"
    "How about next weekend? I can catch a morning flight to Charlotte, be up in time for lunch. I'll stop at one of the gourmet shops on my way to the airport. Bet they don't have brie or leeks vinaigrette in Elkwood, do they? Or wine that doesn't have an expiration date on the label."
    Mitchell was on track now, as if this were a jury civil trial and he had the main witness squirming. Julia felt oddly defensive about this community that she'd only recently joined. "They're good people here. I like this place. I like these mountains."
    "When are you going to give in and marry me?"
    Said with the same tone as "What flavor of ice cream would you like?" Her own anger rose slightly, a hot snake writhing in her chest. "Mitchell, we've been through this a hundred times—"
    "Okay, okay. But, really, I'd love to see you. I need to see you." Voice softer now, trying a different tack. "I miss you."
    "I want to see you, too, Mitchell. I just want to be ready, that's all. You deserve me at my best, and I don't think I can give you that right now. Maybe in a few weeks."
    "A few weeks, then. I'll hold you to that, honey. Listen, got