CELESTE SAT on the edge of the motel bed as Michael watched TV. She had the phone in her lap, her palm flexing over the receiver.
During the late afternoon hours she'd spent with Michael by the tiny swimming pool in rusted chairs, she'd gradually begun to feel tiny and hollow, as if she could be seen from above and she looked discarded and silly and, worse, unfaithful.
Her husband. She'd betrayed her husband.
Maybe Dave had killed Katie. Maybe so. But what had she been thinking when she told Jimmy, of all people? Why hadn't she waited, thought some more on it? Why hadn't she considered every other conceivable alternative? Because she was afraid of Dave?
But this new Dave she'd seen in the last few days was an aberration, a Dave produced by stress.
Maybe he hadn't killed Katie. Maybe.
The point was, she needed to at least give him the benefit of the doubt until the matter was ironed out. She wasn't sure she could live with him and put Michael at risk, but she knew now she should have gone to the police, not to Jimmy Marcus.
Had she wanted to hurt Dave? Had she expected something more to come from looking into Jimmy's eyes and telling him her suspicions? And if so, what? Of all the people in the world, why had she told Jimmy?
There were a lot of possible answers to that question, and she didn't like any of them. She picked up the receiver and dialed Jimmy's home. She did so with tremors in her wrists, thinking, Please, someone, answer. Just answer. Please.