When he opened the door to his tower room, Sally was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head, strands falling to her shoulders. She had a towel in her left hand. She stared at him.
She was stark naked.
She was so damned thin and so damned perfect, and he realized it in just the split second before she pulled the towel in front of herself.
“Where did you go?” she asked, still not moving, just standing there, wet and thin and perfect, and covered with a white towel.
“He wears an eleven-and-a-half shoe.”
She tightened the towel, rolling it over above her breasts. She just stared at him.
“The man pretending to be your father,” he said, watching her closely.
“You found him?”
“Not yet, but I found his footprints beneath your bedroom window and the indentations of the ladder feet. Yeah, our man was there. What size shoe does your husband wear, Sally?”
She was very pale. Now she was so colorless that he imagined even her hair was fading as he looked at her. “I don’t know what size. I never asked, I never bought him shoes. My father wears an eleven and a half.”
“Sally, your father is dead. He was murdered more than two weeks ago. He was buried. The cops saw the body. It was your father. The man last night, it wasn’t your father. If you can’t think of any other man who’s trying to drive you nuts, then it has to be your husband. Did you see him the night your father was murdered?”
“No,” she whispered, backing away from him, retreating into the bathroom, shaking her head, wet strands of hair slapping her cheeks. “No, no.”
She didn’t slam the door, just quietly pushed it closed. He heard the lock click on the other side.
He knew he would never look at her quite in the same way again. She could be wearing a bear coat and he knew he would still see her standing naked in the bathroom doorway, so pale and beautiful that he’d wanted to pick her up and very gently lay her on his bed. But that would never happen. He had to get a grip.
“Hi,” he said when she came out a while later, wrapped in one of the white robes, her hair dry, her eyes not meeting his.
She just nodded, her eyes still on her bare feet, and began to collect her clothing.
“Sally, we’re both adults.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
At least she was looking at him now, and there wasn’t an ounce of fear in her voice or in her eyes. He was pleased. She trusted him not to hurt her.
“I didn’t mean as in consenting adults. I just meant that you’re no more a kid than I am. There’s no reason for you to be embarrassed.”
“I suppose you’d be the one to be embarrassed since I’m so skinny and ugly.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I think you’re very-no, never mind that. Now, smile.”
She gave him a ghastly smile, but again, there was no fear in it. She did trust him not to rape her. He heard himself say, completely unplanned, “Was it your husband who humiliated you and beat you in that sanitarium?”
She didn’t move, didn’t change expressions, but she withdrew from him. She just shut down.
“Answer me, Sally. Was it your damned husband?”
She looked at him straight on and said, “I don’t know you. You could be the man calling me, mimicking my father, you could be the man last night at my window. He could have sent you. I want to leave now, James, and never come back here. I want to disappear. Will you help me do that?”
Jesus, he wanted to help her. He wanted to disappear with her. He wanted-He shook his head. “That’s no answer to anything. You couldn’t run forever, Sally.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” She turned, clutching her clothes to her chest, and went back into the bathroom.
He started to shout through the bathroom door that he liked the small black mole on the right side of her belly. But he didn’t. He sat down on the chintz sofa and tried to figure things out.