Chapter 2: Karen Doesn't Answer

Terry called Karen seven times—seven being the number that seemed, in the moment, to represent maximum concern without crossing into the territory of psychotic stalker behavior, though later, when he would replay this decision in his mind with the kind of obsessive granularity that insomnia makes possible, he would wonder if the appropriate number had actually been three, or possibly one followed by a text explaining the calls, or maybe none at all given that it was 7:51 PM and Karen was at her book club, the Thursday one (not to be confused with the Tuesday one, which was really more of a wine-drinking club that had long ago abandoned the pretense of discussing books) where they were reading something by Margaret Atwood, and she'd been very clear about not wanting to be interrupted.

The calls went straight to voicemail. All seven. Which meant either her phone was off—unlikely, given that Karen treated her phone with the kind of constant vigilance usually reserved for nuclear launch codes or newborn infants—or she'd blocked his number, which seemed both paranoid and exactly the kind of thing someone might do if they knew about the ceiling fan.

And but so the ceiling fan. The thing Terry kept returning to, mentally circling like a dog trying to find the right position to lie down in, was: what ceiling fan? Their condo didn't have ceiling fans. Karen hated ceiling fans, had actually delivered a seventeen-minute monologue (Terry had timed it, surreptitiously, on his watch, back when he was still wearing the watch) about how ceiling fans were "aggressively suburban" and reminded her of her childhood in Phoenix, which she characterized as "a psychologically formative experience in beige."

Terry was still in the parking lot. He'd put the wrap down, though a piece of cucumber had fallen onto his khakis, creating a small wet spot near the knee that looked vaguely obscene. A Whole Foods employee in a green apron was collecting shopping carts, and Terry had the sudden paranoid conviction that the employee was watching him, that everyone was watching him, that his car—a 2019 Honda Civic in Urban Titanium Metallic (a color name that had always seemed to him like it was trying too hard to make gray sound interesting)—was somehow marked, flagged, identifiable as the vehicle of someone who had done something with a ceiling fan at 3:17 AM.

He Googled "ceiling fan" plus "crime" on his phone.

The results were: disturbing. More disturbing than he'd anticipated. There were cases—multiple cases, documented cases—of ceiling fans being used in various homicidal scenarios. Falling ceiling fans. Ceiling fans with modified blades. One particularly baroque case in Florida (of course Florida) involving a ceiling fan, fishing line, and a method of delayed action that Terry didn't fully understand but which the Tampa Bay Times had described as "elaborate" and "showing clear premeditation."

His phone buzzed. Not a text this time but an actual call, from the unknown number—the number he'd supposedly texted at 3:17 AM about ceiling fans and things being done.

Terry stared at the screen. The number had a 617 area code. Boston. Or Cambridge. Or Brookline, technically, though Brookline numbers were usually 617 too, or sometimes 508, or 781, depending on when the line had been installed and various telecommunications decisions that Terry had once, during a particularly boring meeting at work, researched extensively and could still recall with unsettling clarity.

The phone buzzed again. Still ringing. The employee with the shopping carts was definitely looking at him now.

Terry answered.

A woman's voice, unfamiliar, with an accent he couldn't place—Midwestern maybe, or just the flattened vowels of someone who'd worked very hard to neutralize any regional markers—said: "Terry Brennan?"

"Who is this?"

"You texted me last night. About the ceiling fan." A pause, during which Terry could hear background noise that sounded like traffic, or wind, or possibly the ocean, though that seemed unlikely. "I need you to listen very carefully. Karen is fine. She's at Diane's house for book club. The tan house on Beechwood Street with the blue door. Do you know it?"

Terry knew it. He'd dropped Karen off there maybe five times.

"How do you—"

"The question isn't how I know where Karen is, Terry. The question is: do you know where you were last night between 3:00 and 4:00 AM?"

The line went dead.