Twisted Read Free

road quickly, surrendering to the sobs.
    “No, no, no . . .”
    She forced the images of her husband out of her mind.
    The cold water, the gray water . . .
    Five minutes later she’d calmed down. Wiped her eyes dry, reapplied makeup and lipstick.
    She drove into downtown Green Harbor andparked in a lot near the shops and restaurants, a half block from the wharf.
    A glance at the clock. It was just six-thirty. Dale O’Banion had told her that he’d be working until about seven and would meet her at seven-thirty.
    She’d come to town early to do some shopping—a little retail therapy. After that she’d go to the restaurant to wait for Dale O’Banion. But then she wondered uneasily if it would be all right if she sat in the bar by herself and had a glass of wine.
    Then she said to herself sternly, What the hell’re you thinking? Of course it’d be all right. She could do anything she wanted. This was her night.
    Go on, girl, get out there. Get started on your new life.

    Unlike upscale Green Harbor, fifteen miles south, Yarmouth, Maine, is largely a fishing and packing town and, as such, is studded with shacks and bungalows whose occupants prefer transport like F-150s and Japanese half-tons. SUVs too, of course.
    But just outside of town is a cluster of nice houses set in the woods on a hillside overlooking the bay. The cars in these driveways are Lexuses and Acuras mostly and the SUVs here sport leather interiors and GPS systems and not, unlike their downtown neighbors, rude bumper stickers or Jesus fish.
    The neighborhood even has a name: Cedar Estates.
    In his tan coveralls Joseph Bingham now walked up the driveway of one of these houses, glancing athis watch. He double-checked the address to make sure he had the right house then rang the bell. A moment later a pretty woman in her late thirties opened the door. She was thin, her hair a little frizzy, and even through the screen door she smelled of alcohol. She wore skintight jeans and a white sweater.
    “Yeah?”
    “I’m with the cable company.” He showed her the ID. “I have to reset your converter boxes.”
    She blinked. “The TV?”
    “That’s right.”
    “They were working yesterday.” She turned to look hazily at the gray glossy rectangle of the large set in her living room. “Wait, I was watching CNN earlier. It was fine.”
    “You’re only getting half the channels you’re supposed to. The whole neighborhood is. We have to reset them manually. Or I can reschedule if—”
    “Naw, it’s okay. Don’t wanta miss COPS. Come on in.”
    Joseph walked inside, felt her eyes on him. He got this a lot. His career wasn’t the best in the world and he wasn’t classically good-looking but he was in great shape—he worked out every day—and he’d been told he “exuded” some kind of masculine energy. He didn’t know about that. He liked to think he just had a lot of self-confidence.
    “You want a drink?” she asked.
    “Can’t on the job.”
    “Sure?”
    “Yep.”
    Joseph in fact wouldn’t have minded a drink. Butthis wasn’t the place for it. Besides, he was looking forward to a nice glass of spicy Pinot Noir after he finished here. It often surprised people that somebody in his line of work liked—and knew about—wines.
    “I’m Barbara.”
    “Hi, Barbara.”
    She led him through the house to each of the cable boxes, sipping her drink as she went. She was drinking straight bourbon, it seemed.
    “You have kids,” Joseph said, nodding at the picture of two young children on a table in the den. “They’re great, aren’t they?”
    “If you like pests,” she muttered.
    He clicked buttons on the cable box and stood up. “Any others?”
    “Last box’s in the bedroom. Upstairs. I’ll show you. Wait . . .” She went off and refilled her glass. Then joined him again. Barbara led him up the stairs and paused at the top of the landing. Again, she looked him over.
    “Where are your kids tonight?” he asked.
    “The pests’re