The Hand That Feeds You by A.J. Rich Page A

York.”
    “Brooklyn. September twentieth.”
    “I didn’t know that was who we were looking for.” He excused himself and picked up his phone. I assumed he was going to notify his captain. I felt weightless. Did he think Bennett was a murderer?
    When the detective hung up, he gave me his card and said he would be in touch. “How can I reach you?”
    I gave him my information and opened my purse. “I think you should see this.” I handed him the Lovefraud letters I had printed out.
    I waited until he had finished reading them, then asked him to tell me how she died.
    “She fell three stories to her death at the homeless shelter where she volunteered. We believe she was pushed.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “There were scratches on the window frame as she struggled.”
    “And you think it was Bennett who pushed her?”
    “We know him by another name.”
    “And you can’t tell me, right?”
    “Can I make a copy of that photograph?”
    I handed him the scissored half of the photo, and when he brought it back, I couldn’t look at it. I slipped it between the two pieces of cardboard I’d used to protect it in my backpack. But this time I didn’t even unzip the small compartment where I kept it separate from all the crap I’d thrown in—the makeup not used, the empty pens, a half-eaten energy bar with more calories than the Milky Way I’d wanted.
    Outside, I had the hackneyed feeling of surprise that the world continued as it had before what I had just learned. When everybody is in the same circumstances, say a community after a tornado has ripped through it, a careful camaraderie prevails. I was alone with my discovery and had never felt so isolated, or afraid.
    Another woman might have headed for a bar. But what occurred to me was not something I indulged—I just imagined it. I pictured myself wheeling a small cart with a laundry bag filled with sheets and towels, scented dryer sheets, and detergent. I wanted to wheel my laundry cart into a small neighborhood Laundromat and ask the proprietor simple questions about when to add softener. I wanted to sit in a plastic chair and watch my laundry spin, getting clean. I wanted to fold it, warm from the dryer, and retrace my steps, wheeling home the small proof that I could function in this world and make a small thing better.
    Had my dogs saved me?

W here was the man I knew as Bennett six weeks ago when Susan Rorke was killed?
    I was on the train back to New York. I checked my phone calendar and saw that I was right—Bennett had met me that weekend at the Old Orchard Beach Inn, a yellow Victorian on a bluff overlooking the ocean, walking distance to the pier.
    Susan was killed that Friday. Boston to Old Orchard Beach, Maine, was a two-hour drive. Could Bennett have pushed her out the window in Boston and driven his rental the hundred miles to a resort village by the sea to spend a romantic weekend with me? Yes, there had been time for him to do that. I had already checked into the inn when he pulled up. When had he bought the white roses he gave me? He kissed me as usual and asked where we could get a drink. I said the inn was serving wine by the fireplace, and he said he wanted a real drink. I remember being surprised by that. He said he wanted to shower and change first. He said he left Montreal at nine that morning; that would have meant he’d been driving for six hours straight, so there was nothing unusual about his wanting to do that first. He seemed cheery enough and was certainly attentive to me. He had an appetite; we ate lobster for dinner, and of course we made love. Did he have any scratches? How hard had Susan fought? Afterward, he insisted we walk by the ocean in the moonlight even though it was chilly. We strolled the boardwalk, which was nearly empty given the hour and temperature. I heard a few snatches of Quebecois from passersby and asked what they were saying. He told me they were looking forward to tomorrow’s exhibition game