It was cold enough for the car windows to steam over and he rubbed a section of glass every so often to clear it. The house was a single-story brick ranch, a design so ordinary and utilitarian that even if you had not been inside it, as Massey had not, you knew its components. Three bedrooms, two baths, kitchen with breakfast nook, the family room arranged for the worship of television. But at night it took on a dim and secret look, all the windows covered over with blinds and swaddling curtains. Phoebe’s car, the Civic they let her drive, was parked in front. It was almost ten o’clock and Massey had been watching for more than an hour, his attention diffuse, wandering. Now and then a car rolled down the street, but none of them pulled into the driveway behind Phoebe. Other houses showed lights, people watching the news, finishing up the dishes, collapsing into the end of their days. He had no particular curiosity about them. He was almost peaceful sitting here, or at least he would not be peaceful anywhere else.
