Free The Dark House by John Sedgwick

did remember. That and how envious he’d felt when she’d told him her father had died. Not that he wished his own father dead. Heavens. No, he simply wanted the relationship resolved. Two marriages later, was his father still his father? Or more exactly, was that all he was—not friend, mentor, fan? It was all the more confusing now that he lived somewhere on the opposite coast, and was virtually incommunicado. For all Rollins knew, his father could have had more children by now. For that matter, he could be dead.
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    That crumpled postcard announcing Father’s remarriage. Just a few words on the back, scrawled in a lazy diagonal. Signed: Your father. No Love, no Fondly. Just Your father.
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    Marj looked over at him. “You still there?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou get so quiet sometimes.” She waited a moment. “My dad didn’t have an accident. I guess I like to think he did. I didn’t want you to have the wrong idea about me.” She turned away.
    â€œSo what did happen?”
    â€He just never came back. I guess he couldn’t quite face up to the idea that he was a dad. My dad. So he just stayed over there, even after his time in the army was up. He’s still there, far as I know.”
    â€œYou never saw him?”
    â€œNope.”
    Rollins stared over at her. “Why are you telling me this?”
    â€œI just didn’t want you to think that you were the only person who was looking. I look all the time.”
    Rollins shifted uneasily in his seat. He did not take easily to change. He never rearranged the furniture in his apartment. Herevised his list of favorite restaurants only when one closed. For almost a decade, he had taken the same vacations—a week in a small hotel called the Harborside in Florida’s Pigeon Key in mid-February, and another at a tiny rented cottage on Sober Island, off Nova Scotia, in early August, now barely a fortnight away—and always alone. He belonged to no clubs, subscribed only to National Geographic ; and, as for movies, he attended only the revivals of his adored classic black and whites at the Brattle in Harvard Square. Now, with Marj in the seat beside him, her hands tucked under her armpits, he feared that all of this was in danger.
    Rollins stroked his chin with the tip of his right index finger, then turned away from her toward number 29. It was an unprepossessing house, but it was, at least temporarily, a fixed point in his universe. He started to trace the lines of the down spout up to the gutter. Then he caught himself and put the car in gear. “We shouldn’t stay here.”
    â€œBut my car—”
    â€œWe’ll come back for it, don’t worry.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œI think I saw that gaunt man again.”
    â€œWhat gaunt man?”
    â€œThe guy in the Audi who led me here in the first place.”
    â€œOh, shit . That guy? Where?” She looked around.
    Rollins gave her the details of the possible sighting that evening. “I can’t be sure,” he wound up, “but we better get moving.”
    Marj fell silent for a moment, her brow tight, her head slightly cocked. “Wait—so you think he might be following you?”
    â€œIt’s possible, yes.” Rollins moved the car ahead slowly, in low gear, while he checked the rearview.
    â€œOh, shit, ” Marj said. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” She struck him lightly on the shoulder. “I knew this would get scary. I just knew it.”
    â€œI’m not absolutely sure it was him. I didn’t get a clear look at him.”
    â€œDid he run off at the sight of you?”
    Rollins hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
    â€œIt was him,” Marj said coldly, her eyes ahead. “I can feel it.”
    Rollins glanced over at her. “How?”
    â€œI just can. After everything else, Rolo, it just makes sense.” Marj rapped her open palm on