A Perfect Life Read Free Page A

cradle, and a tinny voice called his name from the carpet.
    He called back, “Just a minute.” The bedside lamp was easier to find. White light flooded the room and then faded into a single bulb. Sitting up now, he swung his feet onto the floor and found the receiver between his toes. He picked it up and breathed deeply to calm nerves worn jagged by the same half-remembered nightmare he'd been having for fifteen years.
    When his breathing was normal, he said, “Hello?”
    “Mr. Thomas?”
    “Yes.”
    “You need to answer your door.”
    He massaged his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then reached up to run the fingers of his free hand through thick wavy hair that, no matter the effort, never looked quite tamed. Wire-rimmed glasses lay on the bedside table. He picked them up and looped a gold wire over each ear. “What's this about?” He glanced at red numbers on his clock radio. “It's two-thirty in the morning.”
    “Yes, two thirty-eight. This is the Cambridge police. You reported your car stolen earlier tonight. One of our officers has been outside your door for twenty minutes pressing the doorbell.”
    “I'm in back.”
    “What's that supposed to mean?” The dispatcher's pronunciation grew sharper, sliding her tone from condescending to confrontational.
    “I live in an apartment over the garage. I don't even have a doorbell.”
    “Then you should have told us that when you called in your report.”
    Scott pushed again at his hair. It was a nervous habit. “I did.”
    “As a matter of fact, I have your report right here in front of me, and I can assure you that—”
    “Please tell the officer to come around back. I'll meet him at the top of the steps.”
    “Right.” The line went dead.
    Scott shoved bare feet into untied leather sneakers and tugged at his zipper on the way to the door. Outside, the cop was already walking up painted wood steps that ran along the left side of the Ashtons' garage. Scott opened the door.
    “Mr. Thomas?”
    “Yes. Come in. I need to grab a shirt.”
    The cop chuckled as he followed Scott inside and pulled the door shut. “Don't wanna look like one of the perps on
Cops
?”
    Scott went into the bedroom, got a sweatshirt from the dresser, and pulled it over his head. Back in his little living room, the patrolman waited by the front door. “That your Toyota?”
    Scott stopped short. “What?”
    The patrolman pulled a square of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “You reported the theft of a . . . a-ah, 1976 FJ40 Toyota Land Cruiser. Hard convertible top. Tan inside and out.”
    “Right.” He blinked away sleep and tried to focus. “A guy and a girl—”
    The cop pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “It's parked in your driveway.”

CHAPTER 3
    “What's the big deal?”
    It was Friday morning, and Kate Billings leaned against the curved Formica top of the nurses' station, speaking to a plump redhead seated in front of a computer keyboard.
    The plump nurse shrugged. “Her husband's rich. Something Hunter.” She spun the wheel on her mouse to scroll down the computer screen. “
Charles
Hunter. He's the architect who designed the new children's wing. Supposed to be some kind of genius.” She looked up at Kate. “Have you seen it? Guess I'm not
artistic
enough to appreciate it. Whole thing looks like a spaceship to me.”
    Kate smiled. “I think that was the idea. You know. Children's wing? Children? Spaceships? That kind of thing.”
    “Oh. Well, I guess that makes some kind of sense. Still looks stupid. Anyway, your new patient is Hunter's wife, Patricia.”
    “I've been taking care of her for two weeks. I know her name.”
    “I thought—”
    “Mrs. Hunter has requested full-time nursing. That's what's new. Like I said, I've been taking her her meds and looking in for a couple of weeks, you know, whenever my rotation hit. I just meant what's the big deal about her that requires a full-time nurse. I didn't know her husband was the famous architect