Jack lived in a ranch house in Granby, a Connecticut town of the same proportions and appearance as the one Lacey lived in. But the house was a rental, and the screens were torn and mended with black electrical tape, and inside there was little furniture, and a smell of damp and blocked drains and pine-scented cleanser. Lacey wondered, briefly, how he could stand living this way, but knew better than to ask. They had sex on a mattress in one of the bedrooms, and she imagined herself, guiltily, as a victim of abduction, with the black electrical tape binding her wrists, and her cries silenced by Jack's own insistent mouth. Afterwards she sat on the floor by the window and smoked one of his Lucky Strikes. While he slept, Jack Castle looked so much like her dead brother Jimmy that she kept her eyes averted. She blew smoke out into what seemed to be the boughs of a crabapple, those knotty, dwarfed things with their awful, hard fruit. She counted silently to five hundred and twenty-three, and stubbed the cigarette out on the sill where there were others, a small pile that had grown sodden from what her father called summer rain showers. She wondered how she would get home if she were to leave now.
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