Maribelle and Blaine had argued most of the drive back from Judith’s and, though he had apologized and been very sweet, and though she had even had sex with him afterward, she found that she still hadn’t let go of it, not all of it. She didn’t like it, the way he acted all proprietary-like with her sometimes. Like he was her owner. Or her husband.
Is that what’s bugging me? Maribelle wondered as she lay awake in the dark bedroom, Blaine snoring beside her. Because it makes me think about the big questions?
Her parents’ divorce had hit her hard. Her brother, five years younger, seemed to take it in stride. But Maribelle had almost flunked out of her freshman year of high school over the whole deal. That’s when she’d made the vow to herself never to get married. Because marriages don’t last. If her parents couldn’t make it work, she knew she couldn’t. Not with any man. It seemed to Maribelle the surest way to kill a good relationship was to get married. *No way. Not me.*
They’d talked about it, of course. Blaine said he understood and was okay with it. Maribelle wondered, though. Blaine was not the typical, commitment-wary male. And he loved her. Maribelle knew that for sure. He loved her. *And I love him.* Yet every time she said the words, either aloud or to herself, a little tremor of doubt rolled through her. How can you be sure? it demanded. And Maribelle never had an answer for that one.
She got up to go pee. She thought about taking a shower, that maybe it would help to relax her, but her hair would be messy again in the morning and she’d have to do it over.
She went to the kitchen to get something to drink. She hadn’t bothered to put anything on, but none of the lights were on and she kept all the blinds down at night anyway. Nobody could see inside. She poured herself a coffee mug full of juice and stood leaning against the refrigerator to drink it. Mister Jones rubbed himself against her ankle, purring to get her attention. “Hey, fella.” Maribelle leaned over and ran her fingers through the cat’s long soft fur. He nuzzled her hand.
Something, some sound, a raking, a scratching, just outside her back door. Mister Jones took off with a hiss and a growl.
Maribelle looked at the door. Solid oak, designed for security. No one outside would get through that door without a great deal of effort. And she lived in a nice neighborhood, too. They’d never, to her knowledge, had a break-in at the apartments while she had been living there. But the wing of the apartments where she lived butted up against a little patch of woods, the trees coming right up to the pavement of the parking lot. The tenants here experienced the occasional run-in with wildlife. Raccoons kept getting into the dumpsters, and once one of Maribelle’s neighbors saw a coyote running across the back lot. Maybe this was just a coyote or raccoon, looking for a midnight snack.
“Did he ever ask you where you lived?” Maribelle replayed part of her argument with Blaine in her mind. “Did he?” Blaine had asked. “Well, yeah.” “And that didn’t make you the least bit suspicious? God, Maribelle, can you get any more gullible?” “Look, he asked me questions about everything, Blaine. Anything and everything. Besides, he was locked up in a cage at the time.”
But he isn’t locked up now, is he, sweetheart?
Maribelle stepped to the door. “Adam?”
