"Unless you're not hungry."
His stomach growled at the mere suggestion. "Breakfast would be amazing."
"Coming right up, then. Don't move a muscle."
Angela darted into the hall and he heard her light footfalls on the stairs as she went down to the kitchen. Doug stared after her for several long seconds, happily befuddled. Whatever had gotten into her, he was pretty sure he could get used to it. Not that he wanted to jump back into a relationship with her, but she had definitely changed. The Angela Ristani he thought he knew would have scoffed at the idea of making him breakfast in bed-once upon a time she had teased the hell out of Cherie for just that sort of romantic gesture-but this morning she acted like she'd suddenly woken up from a cynical dream to discover that she was actually kind of sweet.
And how does she know about the Tabasco? He tried to remember if they'd ever had breakfast together, but even if they had, was Angie the kind of woman who would remember what her boyfriend liked for breakfast? Maybe, but he would never have guessed it.
Doug picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Channel 5 had always had the best newscast in Boston-people who seemed real, like you'd bump into them on the street and they'd say hello. He'd remained loyal to the station for as long as he could remember paying attention to the news.
Naked, relishing the feel of the flannel against his skin, he propped himself up on a pile of pillows and relaxed with the talking heads of channel 5. The scent of Angela remained in the pillows and the musk of the sex they'd had the night before lingered as well. If the shyly smiling woman who'd just gone down to spoil him with breakfast in bed was indicative of some new leaf she had turned over, Doug believed he could get used to having Angie back in his life.
Wistful, the familiar ache returning to his heart, he thought of Cherie. In truth, he would always think of Cherie. He knew that. And it wasn't just because Cherie and Angela had been best friends. No matter who came into his life, even if he married again, he would always be in love with Cherie. But twelve years of cycling between loneliness and superficial relationships had been long enough. He deserved something good in his life.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, man," he whispered to the room.
It's just sex and breakfast so far.
The so far made him smile. Time would tell. It always did.
A frown creased his brow. He'd been only half paying attention to the television but now he sat up a little higher. The gorgeous brunette who did the morning weather-hugely pregnant, as she seemed always to be-had just brought up the screen with the five-day forecast.
"Right around thirty degrees Monday and a couple of degrees cooler on Tuesday, but it'll feel warmer thanks to the sunshine we'll be getting. There'll be plenty of melting as well, just in time for what could be some huge snowfall on Tuesday night leading into Wednesday. We're looking at some massive totals, folks, along with potential blizzard conditions north and west of Boston. It's too early for really accurate numbers, but … "
Doug stared at the screen as the map of the greater Boston area appeared, showing the snowfall projections. The swath of color that included the Merrimack Valley indicated a possible fourteen to eighteen inches.
The smile that spread across Doug's face was entirely different from the one he had shown to Angela just a few minutes earlier. It came with a nervous tremor in his stomach, and his pulse quickened.
On the nights that he had met with Franco and Baxter to plan their petty little burglaries or to case a property before a break-in, they'd talked idly about an ice storm that had shut down southern New Hampshire for a week … and about the blizzard that had taken Cherie Manning's life. During a storm like that, people lost their power. Many lost their heat. Some-mostly those who could afford it-got out early and set up in a hotel for the night, enjoying being catered to.
They'd talked about a storm when most house phones and burglar alarms wouldn't work. When cell phone service would be unreliable at best, thanks to all the people trying to make sure their loved ones were all right. A night when even if the alarms when off the cops wouldn't be able to make it out to the crime scenes. They already had the guns and the masks, and Doug and Franco knew a guy who would loan them some big-ass snowmobiles and not ask questions as long as he got a cut.
In his gun safe, Doug had keys to four of the most expensive houses in Coventry.
Another tremor went through him and his smile faded. The idea scared the shit out of him, made him queasy, but he had no intention of letting his fear get the better of him. He had played by the rules for most of his life, and what had it gotten him? A part-time job, and not even that when things got lean at Harpwell's. An empty little house that his wife had inherited from her mother. An empty fridge. Old friends who behaved awkwardly around him because they felt sorry for him.
As crazy as it sounded, even to him, stealing from people was the first thing he had ever done that made him feel as if he was in control of his life. If the government couldn't fix the economy enough for him to get a fair shake, a full-time job with a fair wage, then he would take what he felt he was due.
The smell of frying bacon wafted up to him and he felt a flicker of regret. This thing with Angela seemed promising. Based on the way the morning was going, it certainly didn't feel like a one-night stand. Doug thought it would be nice to have someone in his life who looked at him the way she did, but the timing left something to be desired. He didn't want her to feel that was blowing her off, but he would need to get on the phone to Franco and Baxter as soon as possible. Things needed to be set in motion.
All they needed to fulfill their ambitions was the right storm, and it looked like it was on its way.
Coventry wouldn't know what hit it.
The little boy sat in Jake Schapiro's kitchen, a plate of french toast in front of him. Jake had cleaned the blood off his face, thinking it was likely that the kid's nose was broken, though the very mention of a doctor-or of leaving this house at all-caused such a panic in the kid that Jake didn't dare mention it again. At least not yet.
He'd given the kid clean, dry socks as well as a T-shirt and sweatshirt that floated on him, but at least he was warmer and cleaner than when he'd arrived. The question of just how he'd arrived-how he'd gotten in without breaking locks or windows-remained a puzzler. The kid claimed he'd come in through a second-story window that had been open mere inches and Jake was too baffled to debate the point. There were bigger mysteries here.
As Jake watched, the kid ate hungrily and washed down each bite with a sip of hot chocolate. Isaac had often done the same. As the kid wolfed his breakfast, Jake tried to convince himself it wasn't his little brother sitting in that chair. That should've been easy: his brother would have been twenty-two now, if he hadn't already been dead for a dozen years. And this kid didn't look anything like Isaac.
It's just not possible. Jake repeated this in his mind like a mantra. He leaned against the kitchen counter and watched the kid from a distance, studying his every word and gesture for echoes of Isaac. He felt cast adrift, not only floating on an undulating sea of fear and uncertainty but unable to decide which way he ought to hope the wind blew him.
The little boy hummed happily to himself while he ate, almost imperceptibly dancing in his chair. This meal gave him such pleasure.
Isaac had done that as well.
Stop it, he thought. You're thinking crazy thoughts. It can't be him.
You saw him dead.
But as Jake watched the boy sipping hot chocolate in between bites of french toast, he knew the truth. He could feel his brother in the room with him. And although-except for in a crackly old family video-he hadn't heard Isaac's voice since that horrible night, he recognized it. Every time the boy spoke, Jake felt the world tilt beneath him a little. It felt like he was watching an expertly dubbed foreign film, where the words fit the movements of the lips but the voice somehow did not match the character.
"Thank you," the kid said now, glancing up at Jake as he took a sip of hot chocolate. "I was so hungry. It was hard to even remember what it felt like to … "
The little boy trailed off.
Jake leaned against the counter, trying to keep the urge to freak out under control. It bubbled just beneath the surface but he managed to keep a leash on it.
"What it felt like to what?"
"To eat," the kid said. "I remember wanting to, and what my favorite foods were. But I couldn't remember what anything tasted like. Isn't that weird?"
"Yeah," Jake said, his mouth going dry. "Pretty weird."
Weirdness abounded.
"What were your favorites?" he asked.
The kid narrowed his brilliant blue eyes and then seemed to surrender a little of himself. "You're testing me. I know. I understand."
A tiny shard of guilt lodged itself in Jake's heart, but he ignored it, watching the boy. Not pulling his gaze away.
"Burgers and milk shakes at Skip's," the boy said, sticking a forkful of french toast into his mouth and talking as he chewed. "Apple Jacks. Chicken pot pie. The blintzes Mom makes at Hanukkah."
Jake flinched. Allie Schapiro hadn't made blintzes during the holidays in all the years since Isaac had died. They had been a thing between mother and younger son; Jake had never liked them.
He stared at the kid, who was practically swaddled in the New England Patriots sweatshirt that Jake had loaned him. With the sleeves pushed up so that his hands were free, swimming inside the voluminous sweatshirt, he looked like some kind of refugee. And maybe that was precisely what he was.