The Tell Read Free Page A

pretty. Five days in the heat.”
    â€œWow, O. He needs to know that?” Mira laughed, but she seemed to understand the test and turned to Wilton expectantly.
    The man examined the ink-stained clouds as the city minutes ticked off. “I suppose she had to die somewhere, and isn’t it best to die in your own bed? After all, it wasn’t her problem that they didn’t find her for a while. That’s how I want to go, in my own bed. But I just hope they got the body out and let some fresh air in. Maybe a few squirts of air freshener.” He wiggled his fingers under his nose. “Anyway, it gives the place a certain pedigree, its own drama. Every house should have a story. This is my first time here,” he continued, “which should explain why I can’t get anything to work. That’s what happens when you buy a house over the phone after visiting a few rooms online. They call that a virtual tour, but it’s virtually useless. Anyway, a wad of cash, a leap of faith, and here I am. I’d never even been to Rhode Island before today, and now I own a piece of it. All very efficient and perfectly American.”
    There was no we in the details, Owen noted, and Wilton had tempered his voice to make the story sound empty of attachments, roots, responsibility, lovers, and in the process, arouse a kind of sympathetic curiosity. Who was so untethered and free to buy instant residence anywhere he wanted? No one just landed in Rhode Island, after all, not the first settlers looking for refuge in a forgiving patch of earth and shoreline, and not Owen. It was a place to go when you needed to escape something. And not this guy either—who’d already told them how he’d like to die. What else did they need to know?
    â€œBy the way,” Wilton said, cradling his elbows and smirking, “you haven’t told me your names yet. That doesn’t seem quite fair.”
    Mira put her hands on her head in happy surrender. Her glasses slid to the end of her nose. “You’re right. That’s just terrible. I’m Mira Thrasher and he’s Owen Brewer.”
    Wilton turned and his gaze climbed up the shingles of their house to the many eaves and the slate roof’s highest, homicidal point, where the copper sail of the wind gauge was frozen in its north-south axis. He took in the carriage house and the weighty, surrounding houses. He took in the evening’s uncertain hour and both of them, Owen’s arm around Mira a little too tight.
    â€œThrasher and Brewer,” he said. “Like exhibits in the Museum of Industry.”
    Mira laughed, unhooked Owen’s hand from her waist, and offered to take a stab at Wilton’s hot-water heater. “I’m sure it’s nothing, just a switch. Or maybe a dial,” she teased, elbowing Wilton without actually touching him. Owen marveled at her ease—and was uneasy with it. Mira was not usually won over so soon.
    â€œGood, because I’m completely hopeless,” Wilton said and followed Mira across the lawn, content to be led by her. Mira called to Owen that she’d be right back, then she kicked open the gate with an athletic flourish and they disappeared into the vast house.
    Back inside the kitchen. Owen kept an eye on Wilton’s house while he dried the lettuce, boiled the spaghetti, and waited for Mira to return. He chopped parsley but the distracted blade nicked his thumb. Blood dotted his paper towel bandage. How long did it take to turn on the fucking water heater? He watched lights next door go on and off in one room and then another. Finally, there was a diffuse glow on the third floor within the recesses of the eaves. What was Wilton showing her? Or was Mira pointing out city sights to him? Restless, Owen took his students’ papers from his bag to the room Mira called his study, as though he were a studier, a scholar, when he was nothing close. But this was the same room, the same chair