The Stranger Beside You Read Free Page A

me.”
    Still nothing.  I felt chilled.  I turned to go.  I took two steps toward the door, and then heard him whisper my name.  I paused, turned, lowered my face to him.
    “What is it, baby?” I asked.
    There was still nothing in his face.
    “Closer,” he whispered.
    Our faces brushed together.  I could feel the warmth of his lips against my ear.
    The room was reflected in the wall of glass so that we could see everyone in the room with us.  I could see Tom’s unblinking eyes in the reflection.  He was looking at me, and I saw his lips barely move as he spoke.  He whispered in a hush that was barely audible.  “Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, I will fearlessly make known the mystery for which I am an ambassador in chains.”
    I pulled away and looked down at him.  He glanced at me, for only a second, and then his eyes fell dead again.
    Price said, “Let’s go.” 
    I followed him out into the corridor.  At a table in a conference room I listened to Price’s absurd questions until my lawyer told me to go home.  It was 1:30 a.m. when I found Sadie in the lobby.  She had questions that I couldn’t answer.  It was early Monday morning and the lights of midtown blurred around us.  I sat in the Volvo and closed my eyes.  Tom’s cryptic words echoed in my head.  I had never seen him behave this way.  There was something so different about him.  It was enough to make me wonder: How well do I really know my husband?
     

 
     
    3
     
    We stopped at Sadie’s house.  She came around the front of the car and opened my door for me.  I stood.  We hugged there on the sidewalk.
    “Get some sleep,” she said.
    “Not a chance.”
    I drove like a zombie, turned at our mailbox, and parked the Volvo in the driveway.  I cut the engine and sat in the stillness.  All the lights in the house were on like everyone was home and life was normal.  Life was definitely not normal.  I left the car in the drive and staggered up the front steps.  I rummaged through my purse, found the keys, and brushed away tears as I fumbled with the lock.  But the front door was already unlocked and stood open a couple of inches.  I felt totally violated.  The FBI had invaded my home, taken what they needed, and then had failed to secure it upon exit.  I made a mental note to bring this up the next time I spoke with Clive Rozzell.
    It was spooky coming home to an empty house.  The lights were all on but the place was as silent as a crypt.  Gooseflesh spread up the back of my neck as I locked the door behind me.
    It was instinctual to check every room.  Maybe its something primal, or maybe it’s just a childhood thing we never quite shake that makes us need to inspect every room and every closet in the house, and to check under every bed to make certain nobody’s hiding, waiting to grab us.  I went room by room, cautiously and methodically, and when I was done I sat on a sofa in the den and put my face in my hands. 
    My nerves were shot.  Things had happened so fast.  We’d had a normal family dinner, watched some TV, went to bed, and then at twelve sharp the doorbell rang.
    I found a pad and pen and sat on one end of the sofa, sipping red wine and jotting notes.  I wanted to capture as many details from those initial moments as possible before the memories turned fuzzy.
    Next I wanted to inventory the house.  The swarm of federal agents had boxed stuff up and taken it.  Our possessions are physical representations of our lives, so when I saw the condition the feds had left our home in, it broke my heart, but it also made me livid.  The place had been tossed.  They’d gone through everything, as if to leave no stone unturned.  Clothes had been stripped from closets and left strewn on the floor.  Dresser drawers had been yanked open and pillaged, contents left spilling out.  Mattresses from the beds had been pushed aside, and bookshelves had been emptied, the books forming haphazard piles,