December 24
It was Christmas Eve, and Rosalind hoped that it would be the day Brett would contact her. How perfect it would be!
Without even having her morning cup of coffee, Rosalind raced into the living room and opened the drawer marked with the number twenty-four.
What the hell is this? she wondered when she saw the wooden drawer filled with small yellow pills.
Rosalind knew what they were; she had half a bottle of them in her medicine cabinet. They were sleeping pills, and she had frequently needed them to get through the night after Brett ended their affair.
Her mind raced for a logical explanation.
Why would he send me sleeping pills?
The best reason she could come up with was that as a child she had difficulty falling asleep on Christmas Eve. She must have mentioned that fact to him. But why would he give her so many?
Rosalind tried to enjoy the day and forget about the sleeping pills, but the bizarre contents of the drawer had created a nagging doubt. What if Brett hadn't sent the advent calendar after all? What if it was a cunning stalker like she had originally supposed?
"Enough with all the suspense!" she cried. "I've got to know the truth."
She phoned every number Brett had ever given her, in both New York and Boston, but there was no answer. When she tried his cell phone, all she got was a recording instructing her to leave a message in his voicemail.
For two hours she paced the floor. Finally, she took one of the sleeping pills, just to calm her nerves. When she started to feel tired, she curled up on the couch and watched a holiday movie on television.
She was just beginning to doze off when the evening news came on. The top story was the discovery of a body in an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn, a body which was believed to be that of Brett McCord, the author, who was last seen on Thanksgiving Day.
Rosalind sat up, instantly awake. The writer's body, the reporter explained, was found in an advanced state of decomposition, indicating that Brett had died sometime in late November. The cause of death was not yet determined, pending the results of an autopsy. The author's widow could not be reached for comment.
Brett is dead, and he's been dead for nearly a month!
All her dreams of a life with him on Nantucket collapsed like a house of cards. Her eyes went to the advent calendar on her fireplace mantel. He obviously hadn't sent it. But what did it matter now?
Rosalind went into the kitchen, poured herself a tall glass of wine and then went back to the living room and swallowed all the sleeping pills both in the drawer of the advent calendar and in her medicine cabinet.
