Shock Wave

husband’s death. She’d been overcome with remorse, both at his death and about her relationship with Haden.
    She still loved him, she said, but this death changed everything: she needed space to think, she needed time to grieve, she needed to be alone with her children. She needed help. He calmed her down, as much as he could, he let her weep, he gave her the name a grief counselor he’d heard about from another instructor whose wife had died.
    “She’s supposed to be really good, and as I understand it, she really did help Jeremy get through his wife’s death,” he’d told her, sitting beside her on the couch, one hand on her shoulder. “You think you have to go through it on your own, but you don’t. It helps to have somebody who understands the fault lines of family tragedy.”
    As soon as she was out the door, he said aloud, “Jesus Christ, this is gonna be a pain in the ass.”
    The trap part of the relationship was . . . he needed to keep her close, but he wouldn’t want Flowers to see them together. Actually, he didn’t want anyone to see them together, at least for a while, and that wasn’t easy, in a small city like Butternut Falls. So he needed her close for strategic reasons—their potential marriage—but at the same time, for tactical reasons, he now needed a little distance. At least until Flowers got out of town.
    He got Flowers’s cell phone number off his own cell phone and called him.
    “Virg: you never called to tell me what happened out there,” he complained. “Was Bill the guy? We’re hearing that up at the school.”
    “We’re about ninety-eight percent and climbing,” Flowers said. “The thing we don’t know is, was it an accident, or was it on purpose? There’s no question that most of the remaining Pelex must’ve been touched off. There’re pieces of that farmhouse in fuckin’ Farmington. And probably far-off Faribault.”
    “To say nothing of freakin’ Fairmont,” Haden said. “Well, you know what? I’m still not sure. So when you get to a hundred percent, let me know.”
    “I’ll do that,” Flowers said. “You could buy me another beer or two.”
    “You’re on,” Haden said.
     
     
    WHEN HE GOT OFF the phone, Haden got a half-full bottle of red wine from the fridge, popped the vacuum cork, and carried the bottle over to the couch, where he could think.
    This whole thing would have to be carefully handled. He’d made Sally fall in love with him—that wasn’t difficult. She’d needed somebody, in the biggest emotional crisis of her life, and there he was. He’d been funny, and sensitive, and sexy, had listened thoughtfully to her complaints about Wyatt, and to her intellectual and political positions.
    Had argued with her, from time to time, had confessed that as a mathematician, he was sometimes pulled toward the arguments made by the Republicans about the economy. He’d only done that, though, after hearing that her father had been a longtime Republican county chairman, and figuring out that her father was a major force in her life. The old man was, thankfully, dead, so at least Haden wouldn’t have to deal with that.
    But.
    The big But.
    When their relationship came out in the open, there’d be talk. There was always talk, especially in the academic community. He could handle that, as long as it was off in the future . . . when the bomber had faded, at least a bit, from people’s concerns.
    He took another long pull at the wine.
    Almost done, now.
     
     
    THEN . . . WELL, he knew she was going to be a pain in the ass. He’d finished the bottle of wine, and then had driven to the grocery store and stocked up on Smart Dogs and Greek yogurt, had gotten a premade black-bean salad and a baguette and a six-pack of Dos Equis, stopped at the coffee shop for a cappuccino. He’d had a quiet dinner, took to the couch again, to digest it, then spent ninety minutes at the Awareness Center, his yoga school.
    He was in the parking lot, throwing his yoga bag back in the car, when his cell phone rang. He looked at the LCD: Sally Wyatt.
    “Sally? Everything okay?” he asked. He let concern seep into his voice.
    “Oh, God, that man was here. That agent. He thinks . . . I don’t know what he thinks. I’m worried about . . . things.”
    “You want me to come over?”
    “Better not. The neighbors are having a barbeque, there are people all over the street. I really don’t need any . . . questions.”
    He mentally sighed in relief.
    “Could I come