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where he sits.
    He
coaxes the paper from my hand and sets it on the desk, studies it. “Should I
know what this is?”
    “Theft.
Chapter four, section two of the employee handbook. Look it up.”
    He
squints, shakes his head.
    “I
want it dealt with,” I state flatly. And in these matters, what I say goes.
    He
fishes an old day planner from his desk drawer and flips back, then back some
more. “Baltimore?” he says, still connecting the dots. “But…”
    I
aim to be abundantly clear. “He hit Foxwoods on the way back,” I say, as if I’ve
witnessed the deed firsthand. “Used the company credit card for poker chips.”
With a snort, I demand, “Fire him.”
    Bob
appears panicked, and I know why: Eric makes him look good. Despite the
reptile’s penchant for depravity, he really is superb at what he does. Bob is
sure to flounder without him.
    “Have
you cleared this with legal?”
    “No,”
I say. “But it won’t matter.”
    “Talk
to me when you have.”
    ----
    It
never ceases to amaze me that when do-gooders break rules, they invariably wind
up caught. Yet vermin like Eric Blair creep around among us, evading
repercussions at every turn.
    I
can’t go begging legal to fire him, lest I draw attention to what has
transpired between us. Even though it was rape, I need it to stay quiet, fade
away.
    Something
did come of my meeting with Bob, though: One of Eric’s barely legal conquests—a
frisky redhead from accounting—got canned. It turned out she was the one
who swiped the credit card at Foxwoods, a move that seems foolhardy until one
considers the fact that she arrived at the gambling mecca on Eric Blair’s arm.
    I
would love to share all of this with Jenna, if for no other reason than to rid
my mind of it. But I cannot afford such an indulgence. “So what happened?” she
asks as we burst through the exit door for our noontime walk. On Fridays, we
now skip lunch in favor of burning calories.
    I
shrug. “It was incidental. I didn’t even know who made the charge. But once I
saw it, I was obligated to…”
    No
one would dare say so, but it seems as if people assume I’ve had Eric’s girlfriend
fired out of jealousy.
    “I
thought you were checking on one of the tech guys.”
    “I
was,” I maintain, “but I didn’t find anything.”
    “Oh.”
    If
it weren’t for this wicked wind, the weather would be almost tropical—at least
by Rhode Island in December standards. I cinch my coat tighter. “Any more
strange dreams?” I ask. It strikes me as more than coincidental that Jenna has
been plagued by nightmares for weeks, just as I have.
    She
hesitates a moment. “There was one where I was on a ship. A giant ocean liner,
like the Titanic.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And
this hole opened up in the water. Some kind of vortex or something.”
    This
description reminds me of the movie Ghostbusters , but I keep mum.
    “I
knew we were going to die. The hole just kept getting bigger and bigger, and
the ship started spiraling.”
    There
is deep concern in her voice, a condition with which I empathize. Two nights
ago, I dreamed that Owen spoke; through Eric Blair’s glinting teeth, my baby
chirped, I love you, Claire-bear.
    “Anyway,”
she says with a shudder, “it really rattled me. I’m thinking of getting a
sleeping pill or something. See if that helps.”
    “Don’t,”
I say, sure that my own nightmares are the product of pharmaceutical
intervention. I remember a magazine article I’ve read and suggest, “Try a
lavender bath or some chamomile tea.”
    ----
    The
next note arrives on a Saturday, and this time Tim gets it. He’s had Muffin out
for an early morning stroll.
    I
ramble about the house collecting the debris of the most joyous Christmas we’ve
ever experienced, happiness on a level I’d never before dared imagine.
    Yet
all good things must end.
    The
side door clicks shut as Muffin bounds into the den, uncharacteristically
energetic. Tim takes longer, plots his steps, measures things. I