Or maybe she just wasn't picking up. Either way, I gave up after my third try. It seemed important to run my conversation with Deirdre past her. It seemed important to run it past Curt, too, along with the rest of the day, but when I'd parked my car at home and traipsed around the back of the house, his absence was palpable. I lingered at his back door, hoping to hear the television or maybe his voice on the phone. Curt hated talking on the phone, and, beyond games and a few choice shows, he didn't watch much television. But he did cook, and well. I sniffed the imagined scents of roast chicken or barbecue or tomato gravy. A man who could cook like that deserved better than anything I could provide. The question flitted through my mind what would a normal woman do? A normal woman wouldn't be interrogating the grieving sister of a murder victim, or pressing her cheek to the door of an empty house, trying to will its occupant into being present. I wasn't sure what exactly a normal woman would be doing instead.
