MY HUSBAND IS GOING TO KILL ME

A TWISTY DOMESTIC THRILLER

BONNIE TRAYMORE

Copyright © 2026 by Bonnie Traymore

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Edition

Pathways Publishing

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A Little Getaway

The Unforgetting

Swipe

The Rich Guy’s Wife

The Valet

The Good Sister

For the badasses

ONE

MONICA

My husband is going to kill me.

Maybe not today, but someday.

I know it. I feel it in my bones. Or more like, I feel it in my gut, which is twisted with fear. I feel it in my hands, which are shaking so much, I don’t think I can drive. I feel it in my heart, which is racing after drinking two cups of coffee on an empty stomach. I thought he was gone for the day.

Hiding away in a corner of the house after another one of his explosive outbursts, I try and keep my distance. So far, he’s never hit me, but he’s come close.

The balled fist, which he shakes just inches from my mouth. The face, flushed with cortisol and adrenaline and raw fury. The lips that disappear into a tight grimace. How can I ever kiss them again?

The implication is clear:

I can kill you with my bare hands, any time I want.

Don’t tempt me.

Yes. It’s true.

One of these days, my husband is going to kill me.

Unless I kill him first.

Andrew is gone for the day, and my fear has turned to anger as I pace around the kitchen, waiting for the kids to get ready for school. It’s a nice kitchen, if a little dated, in a smaller four-bedroom house, on a lovely suburban street.

It’s not big enough for our family, but we live in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country, so it still cost us a fortune. From the outside, it looks perfect, with its manicured flower beds and freshly cut lawn. We’re not too far from the other homes, though, and I wonder if the neighbors heard us this morning. If they know that inside these walls, it’s not so perfect.

There’s a pattern after one of his blowups. First, I tremble with fear. Then I tremble with rage. Then I convince myself that I have to stay in for the kids. That relationships have ups and downs. That our life is pretty good. All couples argue, I tell myself. It’s all in my head. He’s never hit me. He’ll never snap, unless he does.

Right now, I’m in phase two.

Anger.

I want to punish him.

But how?

Marriage is a strange arrangement, when you stop to think about it. Two people pledge to stay together forever. Till death do us part. I have a little chuckle about this.

Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it.

Sure. Divorce is an option, if you want to give up half of your assets and cut your net worth in two. If you want to co-parent and divide up precious holiday and summer vacation days with your kids. If you want to be one of those many divorcées on the dating sites, with one failed marriage under your belt.

At forty-one years of age, fourteen years in, how would I be viewed? Fourteen years is a respectable amount of time to be in a marriage. I’d probably present as a solid choice. Someone who could go the distance, and young enough to try again, if that’s what I wanted. Maybe it’s not what I want. Maybe the next guy would be even worse.

But death? Well, let’s talk about that.

You get everything.

The house. The retirement. The life insurance. Plus, you get the sympathy. A widow at the tender age of forty-one, with two school-age kids to raise.

So, yeah, marriage is a strange arrangement, for sure.

Especially if your spouse is worth more to you dead than alive.

As I load the dishwasher and prepare to leave for the day, my anger melts into melancholy reflection. I think back on when Andrew and I first started dating. He was so attentive. So charming. Was it all an act, or did his feelings for me change? I’ve tried to get him to go to counseling. Deal with his anger issues. But he refuses. Tells me it’s all in my head. That I’m never happy. So I’ve given up. Instead, I bury my hopes and dreams and fantasies inside.

Sometimes, they surface in my dreams. Like three nights ago, I woke with a shudder. A man was touching me in a way that felt firm and gentle at the same time, his face so close to mine we breathed in the same air. His passion, wound tight like a cobra, about to explode and ravage every inch of my quivering body.

But then Andrew’s alarm went off and I was alone, curled up on my side of the bed, right up to the edge, as if even in my sleep I want to distance myself from him. I stayed like that, nestled in the afterglow of my dream, trying to keep the feeling alive. Trying to get back to my mystery man, but it was futile.

My husband used to make me feel like that. Maybe the dream was trying to tell me to work harder to get that feeling back. So, the next evening, I made an effort. Rather than coming home from work and washing off my makeup and throwing on my sweats, I donned a sexy sundress, touched up my eye makeup, and waited until he got home. He’s a workaholic, and it was after eight-thirty when he came trudging through the door. The kids were in their rooms already. We could have had some quality couple time.

I tried to make small talk. Acted flirty. But he waved off my words, headed into the bathroom to take a shower, and then started reading in bed. I’m starting to feel that it’s useless to keep trying. I’ll focus on the kids. Keep my head down. Stay out of his way. In the meantime, I’ve found a little solace on the side. And who could blame me?

“Hey, Mom?” my daughter Trina says. She’s thirteen, with a perpetual whine to her tone of voice. “Where’s my jeans?” A mildly accusatory tone hangs in the air, but I don’t push back. I’m too tired.

“I hung them in your closet, honey,” I say. “Hurry. We need to get going.”

We never talk about the fights. She must have heard us this morning. Instead, we bury it deep, letting the tension fester under the surface. It must be affecting Trina, and my son Noah. He’s only eight, still in that phase where he adores his mom, but past the point where he’ll show it in front of his friends. Last year, he would kiss me goodbye when I dropped him off at school. But this year, on the first day, he shrunk from me and bolted over toward his friends.

It’s fine. I’ve never been a clingy parent. I see that in other mothers and it seems pathetic to me. Too needy. I like that they are growing up. Showing more independence. I’m looking forward to having adult children with whom I can discuss current affairs over wine and cheese. I’m not one of those women who looks at their baby photos and pines for the past. I’m enjoying the age my kids are now, even with the attitude I get from Trina. She’s spunky, like I was at her age. A woman in this world needs a little spunk. I wonder if I’ll ever get mine back.

If you’d told me when I was a young, single woman that I’d someday be cowering in a corner of my own home like a beaten-down dog, I’d have told you that you were insane. But I realize now that life is complicated, and we all make concessions as we mature. I just hope the ones I’m making don’t get me killed.

TWO

MONICA

For the next two months, I’m working at a health care facility in Sunnyvale, which is about a thirty-minute drive from where we live in Menlo Park, California. My son is still in public school and my daughter started at a private all-girls school in nearby Palo Alto.

We can’t afford two prep school tuitions, and the elementary and middle schools here are great, so the plan is to do private high school, one at a time. I’m not crazy about the idea of gender-segregated schools, but it’s a top school, and even people in Silicon Valley who aren’t into girls-only education send their kids there. Plus, that’s the only top prep school she got into, but don’t tell anyone.

When I pull into the parking garage, I find a space pretty quickly in the physician’s section. Before I get out of my car, I check my messages:

Thinking of you.

Smiling, I plop my phone back in my handbag and head to the hospital without responding. If there’s one thing I know about men, it’s that they thrive on a challenge.

Speaking of challenges, this is going to be a busy day, but that’s life in health care these days. I’m a locum tenens radiologist, which is sort of like a substitute teacher, but for doctors. I fill in when doctors go on maternity leave or take a sabbatical, or whatever.

Before I stepped down, I was chair of a bustling radiology department at a teaching hospital, and I constantly felt like I was shortchanging someone. My kids, when I wasn’t at home, and my patients and residents, when I wasn’t at work. Andrew’s a workaholic, and he rarely, if ever, pitches in with the kids or the home front, but now he complains that I’m not bringing in as much money anymore. Yet when I outranked him, he didn’t seem to be too thrilled about that either, so it seems that I can’t win with him.

Now, because of my stellar reputation as a neuroradiologist, I make a decent amount of money working an average of thirty hours a week, often working from home, but it comes in spurts. Like now, I’m working a forty-hour week for the next three months, covering a maternity leave. Then I’ll take a break for a month or two and focus on my family. I’ll never go back to that full-time rat race again, trying to split myself in two as the perfect mom and the perfect physician, never measuring up in either arena.

But although I make good money, it would not be enough to support my kids in Silicon Valley if we got divorced, and the bigger problem is, neither could Andrew. We bought our house in the wake of a downturn, when interest rates were low. Property values have increased, and so have interest rates. There’s no way either of us could stay here on one salary.

And even with both of us working, our house is smaller than you would think because real estate is so expensive, and smaller than we need. When I work from home, because of all my computer equipment and the six monitors that I cram into that tiny spare room, it’s hot as hell and totally uncomfortable to work, but Andrew commandeered the den as his home office, even though he rarely uses it.

He’s got so much stuff, and he refuses to part with it. Our home is cluttered and claustrophobic. Every closet is filled to the brim, and I wonder if that contributes to our stress. We’re on top of each other, all the time. Even when I’m home alone, I feel him all around me.

It’s not that I want Andrew dead, per se. Just getting him out of my life would be enough for me; if we could afford it. If he would stop with his explosive outbursts. If I could have full custody of my kids. But we can’t afford it, and he won’t stop, and he would never agree to give up custody of the kids, so none of my options are ideal:

Stay with Andrew and hope that he’ll never snap and pummel me to death.

Try to divorce him, and possibly send him over the edge.

Or somehow, get rid of him.

“Monica! You’re here,” the Chief of Radiology says, wearing a smile that does not reach the eyes. His name is Walt Baxter, and he’s a total egomaniac. A little past his expiration date, he rides his reputation for all its worth, but I’m not impressed by what he did twenty years ago.

His powers of deduction these days are adequate at best, and the fact that he’s chair is proof that it’s still a man’s world in radiology, one of the most male-dominated medical specialties in the profession. He’s tired of it all, I can tell, and he can’t handle the pace or the pressure. Me, I’m in my prime, in no small part because I’ve found a way to recharge my batteries, and I’m not going back to the way things were. Burnout is real in the medical profession these days.

“Hi, Walt. What’ve we got?”

“A busy day,” he says. “They’re all nipping at our heels.”

Walt walks me to the radiology reading room, giving me the rundown on the priorities, then he rushes off. I pull up the queue on my screen and get started. Reading film after film, dictating my findings, I zone out and do my job. I’m very good at it, and I enjoy my work. The laser focus. The intensity of it all. I’m the first person to find out what’s really going on inside the patient’s body, and everyone is clamoring to get my results and take action. I work fast but I’m careful. I care about my job. I care about the outcomes. Work appreciates me, even if Andrew doesn’t.

Soon, it’s midday and I realize I have not eaten a proper meal since yesterday at lunch. I need to take better care of myself. When the kids were little and I was working full time, I was sick constantly, and I looked like death warmed over. Once this gig is over, I’m going to recharge in style. For now, I have to keep on going. Grabbing a Chinese chicken salad from the cafeteria, I pull out my phone and see another text.

Hey beautiful.

Smiling, I tuck it back into my purse and shove a forkful of salad into my mouth. I don’t have much time. Looking up, I see a perky woman making a beeline for me.

“Hi,” says a woman I don’t recognize. “You’re Monica Decker, right?”

“Do I know you?” I ask, covering my mouth, which is half-full of salad.

“I’m Shari,” she says with a smile, “Shari Bukowski,” like that’s supposed to mean something to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not⁠—”

She offers me a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, it was so long ago, don’t worry. But I never forget a face. We met during those crazy residency years. How is Andrew? How are you?” she says, sitting down, uninvited, placing her hand on mine.

Right. I think I remember her now? She was sort of mousy back then, but now she’s a kind of quirky-cute and looks younger than she probably is. Younger than me, in fact. Not that I’m jealous, it’s just an observation.

I’m reserved and selective about social interaction, and this is one of the reasons that I love my current work arrangement. It affords me the opportunity to remain detached, so I don’t get sucked into people’s work drama. I just do my job and leave. But once in a while, since most of the assignments I accept are in the Bay Area, I run into someone who knows me and I have to play along. This is one of those times.

So, we spend a good ten minutes reliving the glory days of my residency years. It was grueling, sure. But there was a sense of camaraderie in all the chaos. And that’s when Andrew and I met and fell in love. Sneaking away for a quickie. Falling dead asleep when we got off our shifts. It hurts to fake it with Shari. To lie to her about how wonderful my life still is with Andrew, the superstar heart surgeon who holds people’s lives in his hands on a regular basis.

She goes on to tell me about her life, although it’s clear that I’m not interested. The woman still can’t read a room. She’s divorced. No kids. Doing the dating app thing.

“I’m so jealous,” Shari says. “You’ve really got it all, Monica. It’s slim pickings out there. Hold on to that husband of yours.”

She winks.

Then she gets up and leaves.

And I have to wonder.

Does Shari know something I don’t?

I never trust the perky ones. The ones who are too friendly. And if I’m remembering her correctly, she was a bit of a gossip. I need to keep a close eye on Shari.

A very close eye.

THREE

MONICA

My mind wanders to dark places sometimes, and as I make my way back to the reading room, I let it. Most of the time, I try to shut it down. But today, I’m actually allowing it to run wild, fantasizing about how I could get rid of Andrew, the sting from his uncontrolled rage still fresh and raw.

I know. I know. It’s a big risk, killing someone. I don’t want to go to prison. I’d rather die than spend a day in prison.

I remember watching the news years ago and seeing all those famous people hauled off during that college admissions scandal. A few of the who’s who from our area, in fact. I wonder if they ever felt the same again. If they ever got that prison stench out of their nostrils. I’m sure it was horrible.

At least in that case, the parents could claim they were doing it for their kids. People might get that. Afford them some sympathy. If I killed my husband with no proof of any domestic abuse? Well, I would not get much sympathy, that’s for sure.

So, I need something foolproof. Which means I can’t do it myself. Yes, I know that hiring someone is fraught with problems. No, I can’t hire someone. I have to make someone want my husband dead.

Enter Ben.

I met Ben in the chatroom of a support group for partners of workaholics, and at that point, getting Ben to kill my husband was the last thing on my mind. That was before I started to think about what it would be like if Andrew were to meet an unfortunate, untimely death. The freedom. The relief I’d feel, that I could be free from his mood swings and anger outbursts. That the kids and I could finally have some peace.

Ben asked a lot of questions, especially when I told him about Andrew’s anger issues.

Did he ever hurt you?

Do you think he could snap?

Do you think he could hurt your kids?

Those kinds of questions.

And I got to thinking about it. Yes, Andrew could snap. He could easily snap. I went down a rabbit hole, reading about men who turn into family annihilators and kill all their family members. What makes them do it. There are two types, I learned. The weak type who blames the family for their problems. That’s not Andrew. Then there’s the power-hungry narcissist, the control freak who can’t take failure or humiliation. Now that got my attention.

Familicide is rare, but according to my research, financial pressures and loss of control over their lives tend to be common denominators in many of the cases. They often have a history of domestic violence, and although Andrew has never actually hit me, his behavior meets the criteria for violent and aggressive behavior. He’s kicked in doors. Turned over furniture. Knocked over lamps. He’s shaken his fist at me, but so far, he’s never crossed the line. But if I tried to divorce Andrew. Take all of his money. Threaten to expose him and his uncontrolled rage to the world. Would he snap?

I have a hard time believing he’d hurt the kids, but then I’m sure all those women whose husbands lost it said the same thing. Does anyone ever see something like that coming? Did they ignore the anger and rationalize it until it was too late? The problem is, none of them lived to give me an answer.

It was Ben, in fact, who put the idea in my head. Warned me that all signs pointed to the fact that Andrew was headed in a dangerous direction. That I needed to get out before it was too late. He said he’d protect me and the kids. Keep us safe.

That’s when I started to do the research. That’s when I realized how valuable Ben was. How much he cared. How much he wanted to protect me.

And that’s when a very bad thought crossed my mind. One I come back to now and again, when I’m in my darkest place.

What if Ben would kill him for me?

“Monica?” Walt says, peeking into the reading room. “Henry had a question about your interpretation of that last CT scan.”

Radiology has its perks, that’s for sure. But it also has its drawbacks. One of the major frustrations is that doctors in other specialties seem to forget that we radiologists possess knowledge that they don’t. We are the experts in our field. They are not experts at reading films, but many seem to discount the fact that there is a five-year residency requirement in our specialty.

This is longer than pediatrics, internal medicine, dermatology, and emergency medicine, about the same as general surgery, but not as long as neurosurgery. And if you want to get hired these days, add on specialized training, in my case, in neuroradiology. Objectively speaking, it’s pretty freaking long. Six years of training after med school to become a neuroradiologist. I’d never try to do their jobs, but they seem to think they can do mine.

Rolling my eyes, I ask, “What now?”

Henry is a pain-in-the-ass attending ER doctor, and it’s days like this that I miss being chair of the radiology department. As chair, I could do something about the Henrys of the world. Reach out to his chair. Or to the Chief Medical Officer, if things got really nasty.

But now, as a locum tenens contractor, I have to tread carefully. My diagnostic track record is impeccable, but if I get a reputation as a gadfly, it might work against me. One of the keys to staying employable is being nice to everyone, whether they deserve it or not. I like to stay close to home, if possible, and there’s a lot of competition in the Bay Area for freelance radiology work.

I’ve taken a few short assignments out of state when the work was interesting or lucrative, or when there was no work here, but it was hard on my family. Andrew didn’t like having to do what he views as my job: taking the kids to school, monitoring their homework, and such. I suggested we hire a nanny to help out, but he also doesn’t like the idea of strangers taking care of Trina and Noah, poking around in our business. Plus, child care is expensive, which kind of defeats the purpose of taking the out-of-state work.

So, I try hard to do my job and serve my patients without pissing anyone off. Doctors disagree on a regular basis, and the deliberation is part of the diagnostic process, and if I have concerns about the patient, I speak up—just not as forcefully as I would like. But I’m not going to shortchange a patient just to get along.

“He feels that ordering an MRI is overkill for a guy with a headache and history of migraines,” Walt says.

“Oh he does, does he?” I smirk at Walt, because he’s sick of Henry, too. “Look at this,” I say, “right here,” tapping on the monitor. “These are tiny infarcts. I’m sure of it.”

Walt nods, although I’m not sure he sees what I’m seeing. Like I said, he’s past his prime. Early stroke damage, especially on a small stroke, is nearly impossible to catch on a non-contrast CT scan and is often missed, especially if the patient presents with another explanation for their symptoms, such as a history of migraines or vertigo.

“Why don’t we get a neuro consult?” I suggest, even though I’m nearly a hundred percent sure I’m right. It’s not a migraine. This patient has experienced a small ischemic stroke. We need to err on the side of caution and get the MRI. I’ve seen firsthand what happens when doctors assume the best instead of the worst about a scan.

“Kick the can down the road?” he says. “That might take some time.”

I stay silent and cross my fingers, letting Walt come to his own conclusion, so this doesn’t land back on me.

After a long pause, he says, “I’ll push him for the MRI. Better safe than sorry.”

Which was exactly what I was hoping for.

Less than an hour later, I’m proven right, but of course, Henry is busy with other patients, and I didn’t get to see the look on his face when I was proven right. The man is admitted and started on stroke protocol.

“Nice work,” Walt says, and then he pats me on the back.

This feels a little patronizing, but he’s right. It was nice work. I don’t expect a medal for doing my job, though, and the day is young, so I pull up the next file to start on the next case, but before I do, I remember that I haven’t texted Ben back.

There’s hard to get and then there’s just plain rude, and right now I’m somewhere between the two. So, I pull out my phone and send a quick text:

Hey yourself.

And then I get back to work.

FOUR

ANDREW

“Calm down, Malcolm,” I say. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

This only makes my boss angrier, and I swear I see steam coming out of his ears. Malcolm’s eyes bug out of his head, framed by an unruly pair of angry eyebrows.

“Not that big of a deal?” he screams at me.

And this is after he’s calmed down a little after reaming me out for twenty minutes. Now that is what you’d call yelling. My wife accuses me of yelling at her when I’m merely talking. I wish she could hear this, because maybe then she’d be able to tell the difference. We are in his office in a far corner of the hospital, but I know for a fact that my nemesis is probably out there listening, relishing the dressing down he’s giving me.

Malcolm Lang is Chief Medical Officer here at Palo Alto Medical Center, and technically, he’s my boss’s boss. But our Chief of Surgery is a lame duck and I’m on the shortlist to replace her when she retires in a few months, so Malcolm has been dealing with me directly more often, in an attempt to vet me. I’m not making it easy for him. I know this. Maybe I’m off his shortlist after today, but I don’t want to go there right now.

The board and the lawyers don’t like it when I push the envelope. My mortal sin of late? I talked a patient into trying a new procedure that hadn’t been cleared by the higher-ups. They are obsessed with “established protocols” and board-sanctioned standards of care these days, which many times means delivering antiquated and less effective techniques to the patient. It takes forever to get innovative new procedures through the bureaucracy. Me, I like to save lives if I can.

And yeah, I have a big ego. I deserve it, even if my boss and my wife don’t seem to agree with me. My patients appreciate it. They worship me. And that’s what’s supposed to count; only these days, it’s all about risk management.

“It worked, didn’t it?” I say.

“That’s not the point, Andrew, and you know it.”

I shoot back. “Well, it should be the point. And you know it.”

“You are operating beyond your ken, Andrew. There’s a bigger picture here.”

My lips press into a tight grimace. I’m about to lose it, but I fight to keep it together. Through a low mumble, I say, “The only picture I’m interested in is the one where I’m looking at a beating heart and trying to figure out how to keep it that way.”

“Watch yourself, Andrew. There’s only so far your talent will take you these days. Times have changed. Now go.”

I’m about to tell him to grow a pair, but I stop myself. I’ve done enough damage for one day. Still, after I walk out the door, I slam it shut.

“What?” I say to his assistant, who shoots me a look that’s part fear and part intrigue. People around here love their office gossip, and I’m happy to oblige. I shrug. Then I wink at her and go on my way. As I do, I see the hint of a smile curl up her face.

She’s really cute. If I wasn’t married, I’d ask her out. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. What life would be like if I wasn’t married to Monica.

And I think it would probably be great.

There’s so much pressure in my life these days, it feels like a vice is clamped at my temples, squeezing the life out of me. We live in one of the most expensive areas of the country, and my wife refuses to maximize her earning potential.

It’s not like I wanted to live here. We moved here from New Jersey, where I got my fellowship after my residency, which isn’t cheap but it’s not like Silicon Valley. She says we can’t leave here because of the kids, but the kids would be fine. It’s her. She likes it here, and she’s stubborn. If we left, it would be like admitting defeat; that we left because we couldn’t cut it financially. And Monica is one to fight to the death before admitting defeat.

She’s been on the warpath lately, even more than usual. It’s a little early for menopause, but it could be perimenopause. I swear, I just look at her the wrong way and it sets her off, and that’s when I’m not even doing anything. Not everything is about her. Sometimes, I’m just having a bad day, but she’s wired that way. Totally self-absorbed. And if I speak up for myself when she rags on me? Or if I dare to go on the offensive and challenge her? She loses it.

So what’s a guy to do?

I bury myself in my work. I flirt, with doctors and nurses, and even patients sometimes. I’ve never actually had an affair, unless you count the time when we first started dating, but I’m thinking about it. It might be the only way to keep me sane. If Monica found out, maybe she’d divorce me. Or maybe she’d just kill me. Put me out of my misery.

I’m joking. She loves our kids, and that would hurt them too much. I’m not exactly father of the year material, but I’m solid. Reliable. And that’s why I want Chief of Surgery. That would give me the financial cushion I’d need to support myself and the kids on one salary. Then Monica would be forced to get a real job, without having me around to foot the bill for our nice home and spa treatments and luxurious family vacations.

I realize, though, that I need to find a better way to manage my stress. I can be a hothead, and I’ve got to try and damp that down. So, I’m going to march back inside and apologize to Malcolm Lang. In the meantime, I consider more seriously the idea of finding a side piece. Someone to tide me over until I can make a move.

Or I swear, I might really blow a gasket.

FIVE

ANDREW

“I’m sorry I got so upset,” I say, standing at the door, offering up my palms in a gesture of submission. “I know it’s not your fault.”

Malcolm Lang stands behind his desk, arms folded. He takes a deep breath. “Come,” he says, waving me over. “Sit.”

I do as he says.

Malcolm is only in his mid-fifties, but in the last five years, he’s aged. His hair has turned from salt and pepper to full-on gray. It’s a nice contrast with his dark complexion, and it looks good on him. Distinguished, commanding, yet approachable, like a wise sage. But his eyes tell a different story, if you look closely. There’s a heaviness there, and I realize that he’s in a difficult position. I like Malcolm. He doesn’t deserve my attitude.

“You’re a great surgeon, Andrew. Nobody would argue that point. But I’m not sure you’re cut out to be on this side of the desk.”

Hanging my head, I prepare to grovel. I need this promotion if I’m going to move my life forward. “I can do it,” I say.

“Can you? Because it’s not easy. It wears on a person. I’m not sure you have the temperament.” Malcolm eyes me as his words linger in the air.

I let some time pass, hoping he’s not going to pull my name off the shortlist. I need to keep him talking. Get his mind moving in a different direction.

“Was it hard for you? Making the switch?” I ask.

He tilts his head to the side. “You know, nobody’s ever asked me that. Yes, I suppose it was. It’s hard for everyone, but you can’t let the people under you know it. It’s your job to absorb all the heat. From the board. From risk management. So they can stay focused. Do their jobs. Save lives. They need to have confidence in you. And slamming doors does not promote confidence.”

I blow out a breath. “Maybe you can help me.”

His brows rise. “Are you assuming⁠—”

“I mean, if I get the job. And even if I don’t. Mentor me, Malcolm. Help me learn where to put the anger. The indignation. I know you feel it too. Where do you put it?”

“Here,” he says, giving his gray head a rub. “And it shows.” He flashes me a half-smile, as if he forgot himself. And then it’s gone.

Not wanting to prolong the agony, I ask, “Am I off the list?”

“I’ll leave you on the list under one condition,” he says.

“Sure, I guess. What’s the condition?”

Malcolm plucks a fancy wooden pen out of its holder and scribbles something on a Post-it note. Then he turns the note around and sticks it in front of me.

I look down and my brow furrows. It’s a web address. “Is this⁠—”

“It’s an anger management course. Sign up. Take the course. Email me the results when you’re finished. Do it soon.”

Rolling my eyes, I plead with him. “Malcolm! I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time. Or you’re off the list.” Staring me down, he adds, “Now go.”

My nostrils flare, but I keep my composure. This is not good. If this is in my record that I was mandated by my employer to take an anger management class and I get into a custody battle with Monica… but I can’t worry about that now.

“Sure,” I say. “If you insist.”

It’s not going to help. It’ll just be a load of psychobabble, like that time Monica made me go to marriage counseling and the guy sided with her the whole time. I think he wanted to get into her pants.

“I want this for you, Andrew. But you’ve got to show me that you want it, too.”

Relaxing my posture, I nod and tell him what he wants to hear. “I do. More than you know. And I’ll prove it to you.” Then I slink toward the door, open it, flash him a cheeky smile, and gingerly close it behind me.

“Well, that went better than last time,” his cute assistant says to me.

I shrug and offer her a smirk. “It’s an act, but let that be our little secret.”

She beams, her pale freckled skin blushing ever so slightly. I won’t take this any further, though. If I have an affair, it can’t be tied to my workplace. I’m not that stupid. I’ll join one of those sites. One of the discreet ones for married people, if I can find the time between saving lives, managing my psycho wife, and taking my anger management class.

This sucks, but it’s better than being pulled off the shortlist.

So, I stuff the anger down and head for the only place I feel totally at peace.

I head to the operating room.

There’s something magical about the inside of the OR, especially when everything goes right. At times like that, it’s somewhere between a well-oiled machine and a symphony, with each person playing their part, and the sum of the parts being greater than the whole. Magic happens. Lives are saved. Careers are made. Today is one of those days.

We’re on a roll. After two non-invasive surgeries, we’re doing a valve replacement. Open heart. It is going well, and I’m about to turn it over to a resident to close up, but I take a minute to admire the beating organ laid bare before me. They are all special to me. I never tire of watching them pulsate. Here, I control the outcome, unlike outside the operating room. Most of the time, it goes my way. It’s not luck. It’s skill. In here, I’m calm. Collected, even under pressure. No matter what, I never lose my composure in here. Outside is a different story, but it’s what happens in here that matters most.

“Great job, everyone,” I say, giving credit to the team.

We’re taught to do that. To not take all the glory for ourselves. To thank all the players who make this a successful surgery, from the surgical techs to the nurses to the janitor who cleans the floors.

But we all know it’s me. I’m the one who’s important. I’m the one who deserves all the credit. Because after all, if it goes bad, I’m the one who takes all the blame. You can’t have it both ways. I know this. So today, I smile inside and pat myself on the back, and when nobody’s looking, I cross myself. I do this at the beginning and end of each surgery, but I try not to let anyone see. It’s my good luck ritual, even though I’m not a practicing Catholic.

And most of the time, it works.

SIX

MONICA

I’m home by six, which is later than I’d like. The kids are finishing up their homework, and I’m cooking dinner. I like it better when I can work from home, but the three-month maternity gig was too lucrative to pass up.

I’m more than halfway through the assignment, and I’m thinking that maybe it’ll give me some time to pick Shari Bukowski’s brain. I wonder if she’s heard anything about Andrew. If he’s perhaps sleeping around. The thought of it bothers me more than I would have imagined, Andrew with another woman.

“Mom?” Noah calls to me from the living room. He’s doing his homework on the sofa, leaning on the coffee table, because his room doesn’t have space for a desk. Usually, he does it at the dinner table, but he got a late start tonight, and we’re eating soon.

“What is it, honey?” I turn off the burner and head to my son.

“I can’t figure out what Mr. Bellows wants me to do.”

My son is flustered, and I don’t blame him. Putting everything online was supposed to make school easier, but it hasn’t. Each teacher does it a different way, and it gets more challenging as they get older and have more subjects. Noah has three teachers now, and the one who handles social studies and language arts is particularly cryptic.

Scanning the entry, I roll my eyes. Noah is supposed to prepare for some kind of role-playing game about the American Revolution. And he needs a costume? You’ve got to be kidding me. Do they think parents have time for this nonsense?

Last year, the kids had to bake a cake in the shape of a cell for science class. Do they think that the kids baked it? Really, it’s ridiculous. Just teach the subject and stop trying so hard to make it fun and creative and totally useless at imparting knowledge. No wonder our kids are falling behind.

Noah throws up his hands in frustration. “I can’t find the sheet about my character.”

After a few minutes of clicking, I find it and print out a hard copy. I highlight some of the key points and traits. It’s not a script per se. Noah just needs to get the gist of what his character is like. But he’s doing his skit tomorrow, and he needs something to wear. We have a suit jacket that will probably still fit him, from a wedding we attended a year or so ago. I guess he can wear that. Thankfully, the character is a politician from New York, not a soldier or a farmer. It’ll have to do. The costume is extra credit, I see in the fine print, so I’m not going to knock myself out.

We practice a little, and then Noah starts to relax. He’s type A, and I worry that he’ll be like Andrew. Competitive and stressed out all the time.

“It’ll be fine, honey. You’ve got this.” I pat him on the head.

He grabs my hand. “Thanks, Mom,” he says. “Really.”

I smile at this. Someone in this house appreciates me. Trina used to be like that, and I need to try harder to connect with her. I wonder if, when Noah becomes a teen, he’ll start to resent me too, or if it will be different with a son. Mother-daughter relationships are complicated.

“You’re welcome. Now, go get your sister for me and tell her that dinner’s ready.”

It’s around seven-thirty when I hear Andrew come through the door. I abandon my chat with Ben and tuck my disposable phone into my purse. I didn’t expect my husband home this early.

“Hey,” Andrew says.

“Hey, yourself,” I reply, sitting on the sofa, doing nothing at all, wondering if I look suspicious to him.

Instead of heading to the bathroom or the bedroom, Andrew comes and hovers over me. “What are you doing, sitting here all alone?”

“Who should I be sitting with?” I ask.

“How about your husband?” he says.

“My husband works all the time,” I say. “He hardly notices me anymore.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Would you like to have a drink with me? Since your husband is otherwise occupied?”

“Sure. I’ll take a vodka and tonic,” I reply.

And I wonder what kind of game he’s playing. Is this his way of apologizing, or does he want something from me? It’s sexy, though. I’ll give him that. Andrew can be very sexy when he wants to be. I decide to go with it, reminding myself of the little pang of jealousy I felt thinking about my husband with another woman, and how much easier life would be if we could find our way back to each other.

Andrew heads to the kitchen to fetch our drinks. I hear him clanking around, and soon he’s back, sitting beside me. “To new adventures,” he says.

We toast, and I take a sip of my drink. Andrew puts his feet up on the coffee table and stretches his arms across the back of the sofa. We sit in comfortable silence, not wanting to break the spell. It almost feels like it did years ago, back when things were good.

“Good day?” I ask.

“It’s a good day when nobody dies. So yes, it was a good day.”

I suppose the pressure of Andrew’s job could get to a person. I don’t have that kind of pressure. I deal in life and death at arm’s length, not up close. Although I’m sometimes the person who sees the bad news before everyone else, I’m not the one who has to give it to the patient. If they die, they will do so without me by their side. With Andrew, it’s different.

After we get a buzz going, Andrew rests his hand on my thigh.

I’m still in a skirt and blouse from an end-of-day work meeting. The warmth of his palm feels good as he presses it down. Then he starts to slide his hand up my leg. The kids aren’t sleeping yet, and this feels a little risqué. It’s been a long time since he’s done something like this, and I can’t help but wonder why now. Does he know about Ben? About our chats? My secret life?

But my body takes over, and I abandon all rational thought. The fact is, Andrew still lights my fire. You’d think after all these years, I’d be immune to his sparkly eyes and sexy smile. That I would no longer feel an urge to run my fingers through his dark, wavy hair. But we’ve never had a problem in that department. It’s always been hot between us, even when we’re angry.

Soon he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom, and we fall onto a bed that’s tidy and made up, not bothering to turn down the covers. There’s no time to fully undress. He hikes up my skirt and takes off his pants. It’s all a blur of arms and limbs and grunts and it’s over before we know it, but not in a bad way. In an urgent, life-affirming way.

After we’re done, he says to me, “I better get going before that husband of yours gets home.” Only he’s not smiling, and once again, I wonder if he suspects something.

“Yeah,” I say. “You better. He’s got quite a temper.”

Andrew grabs his pants off the floor and heads into the shower.

“Mom?” Trina calls out from the hallway.

“One minute,” I say, pulling my skirt on, although I also need a shower. But I can’t ignore my daughter and Andrew didn’t seem like he wanted company.

Opening the door, I ask, “What is it?”

Trina reminds me that she has to leave early for school tomorrow for debate practice and goes on to tell me about some party she wants to attend in a few weeks. Andrew appears behind me in shorts and a t-shirt. “I’ll take you to school,” he says to Trina.

“Thanks, Dad,” Trina says.

Then Andrew pushes past me and out our bedroom door. I head for the shower, still struggling to figure out what’s going on.

When I get back out to the living room, it’s as if the entire interlude never happened. That Andrew didn’t just seduce me. But I feel a little scrape on my face from his stubble. A reminder that our marriage isn’t completely dead.

“Hey,” Andrew says to me. “Can we get a sitter for Saturday night?”

Is he asking me on a date night?

That would be…

Crazy? Unexpected? Nice?

“For?” I ask.

“Malcolm invited us over for dinner.”

My nostrils flare a little as it all becomes clear to me. This is about the promotion, and he’s buttering me up so I’ll play the role. Dutiful wife by his side. Chief of Surgery needs to have a stable home life. Andrew’s competition is a single woman and a divorced man with kids. The winner will always be a happily married surgeon with a supportive spouse.

I don’t want to go, but I will. Until I have a better plan, I need to play the part of dutiful wife to a tee.

“I think Trina’s old enough to watch Noah without a sitter,” I say.

Andrew shrugs. “I guess. Whatever you think.”

“We won’t be late, will we?”

“I doubt it. It’s Malcolm,” he says. “It starts at six.”

“Trina can handle it,” I say.

Andrew goes back to his phone. He’s not texting, just reading. I wonder again if he’s having an affair.

“Andrew?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t look up at me, and continues to read on his phone.

“I ran into a woman named Shari Bukowski at work. Do you remember her?”

My husband lets out a huff. I’m clearly annoying him now. “Who?”

“She was a resident. With us, she claimed. But I can’t quite place her.”

He stops what he’s doing and gives me a hard stare. “Whatever. Monica. Can’t you see that I’m busy here?” With that, he gets up and starts toward his office, back to his gruff, dismissive self.

Maybe Andrew doesn’t remember Shari Bukowski, but she sure remembers him. Maybe she knows something and maybe she doesn’t. I’ve got some time to find out.

In the meantime, I take comfort in the fact that he wants this promotion. He’ll be on his best behavior, at least for a while. But how long before he blows up again? And what then?

SEVEN

MONICA

With nothing else to occupy my time and Andrew otherwise engaged, I pull out my burner phone. There’s one text from Ben, asking me how my night is going. I don’t dare tell him the truth. He thinks that we have a marriage of convenience, Andrew and me. But our marriage isn’t completely dead, obviously—although I’m not letting Ben know that.

And as I stare down at the text message, I wonder what kind of game I’m playing here. I don’t know Ben all that well. What would happen if I ended things with him? If somehow Andrew and I could get back to each other? Would Ben take it in stride, or would he protest? Would he fight for me? Get crazy jealous? Is he filling my head with thoughts of Andrew snapping just so I’ll leave Andrew and be with him?

It’s kind of exciting, I must admit. The thought of two men fighting over me. Would Andrew fight or would he just let me go? I think I know the answer. He’s not willing to fight for our marriage now. We went to two counseling sessions and he threw in the towel. Claimed that the therapist wanted to sleep with me.

But he didn’t say it in a jealous way. He said it in a way that was designed to gaslight me into thinking I was wrong and he was right and the only reason the guy was agreeing with me is because he wanted to get in my pants.

I didn’t even have a chance to bring up the anger issues in our sessions. Something about that frightened me, doing it in front of Andrew, like he’d be pissed at me for airing our dirty laundry. I suppose I could go back to the therapist and talk through it, but that would make it feel too real. And then I’d have to tell the therapist about Ben putting these ideas in my head, and I’m not ready to admit to anyone that Ben is in my life. I barely admit it to myself.

And now I’m back to where I was before our interlude, just like Andrew. The afterglow of our buttering-up sex has worn off. I’m pissed off at him. So pissed off that I don’t think I want to go to that dinner. So, I throw the phone back in my purse, march into his office, and tell him I’ve changed my mind.

“Changed your mind about what?” he says.

“I can’t go on Saturday to the dinner. I don’t think the kids should stay here alone. Trina is at an impressionable age. I have to keep an eye on her. Did you hear that story about the girl who fell in love with an AI bot and it told her to kill herself and she did?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Andrew barks. “Her phone doesn’t even have the capability to do that.”

“She could get on her computer and do it while we’re out. I can’t prevent her from doing that. She has to do her homework.”

“You’ve gone completely insane. Do you know how important this promotion is to me? You have to go, or it will be weird.”

“Why is everything about you?” I say.

“It’s about us and our family,” Andrew says.

“You always blame the family for your ambitions. You want me to go there and suck up and play dutiful wife, that’s the only reason you came home and⁠—”

“Will. You. Stop!” Andrew pounds his fist on the desk so forcefully, he has to shake his hand afterward. Then he springs up, and I take a few steps back.

He gets in my face. “What the fuck is wrong with you lately? We had a nice evening. Why can’t you just leave it at that? I can’t do anything right. All you do is complain.”

“Do not turn this around on me,” I shoot back.

Andrew’s jaw sets. His look is cold now. Calculating. He steps even closer, moving toward me as I back away, until I’m pressed up against the wall. His breath is close enough that I smell a hint of alcohol.

But he’s not drunk. That would probably be more understandable; at least an excuse for his behavior. My nerves are ablaze with fear, and I feel pinpricks shooting down my limbs. It’s clear that I’ve taken this too far.

In a measured tone, he says, “You are coming with me, Monica. There will be no further discussion about this. Are we clear?”

I nod.

His nostrils flare as he attempts to calm himself down. My husband takes a deep breath, and I see his shoulders relax. “I will find a sitter for the kids if that is what you’re worried about. Now please. Go,” he says. “I have work to do.”

Although I’m trembling inside, I can’t allow myself to be too passive. Over the years, I’ve become a doormat. That needs to change. “I’ll go,” I say. “But I’m not making a habit of this. Do not expect me to play the part of dutiful spouse on a regular basis, if you get this job.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says.

Is that a threat?

My husband turns from me and goes back to his desk. I take a quick glance at his computer screen and squint, trying to see what he’s working on, but the print is too small. He never logs out of his computer. I’ll look later, when he’s sleeping. I’m a light sleeper but he sleeps like the dead. Maybe he’s ordering a hit on me, for all I know.

If so, I’d like to see it coming.

Andrew is asleep.

I sneak out of bed, head down the stairs, and go to the kitchen to brew an herbal tea. Taking a deep breath, I briefly consider the fact that maybe I don’t want to know what he’s up to. Still, I pad to Andrew’s office and wake his sleeping PC. I used to joke that we had a mixed marriage: Mac and PC, back when we both had a sense of humor. Back when we made each other laugh. When did we stop laughing?

My stomach sinks as I stare at the screen. My mind is officially blown. I figured Andrew would be doing something related to work. He’s very focused on this promotion. But a small part of me thought I might find something about another woman, although he’s not that stupid. If he was seeing another woman, he would be stealthier about it.

But it seems he’s started an anger management course.

What does this mean?

Does it mean that he’s finally realized that he needs to get his anger under control?

Then I look to the right and see a Post-it note. Handwritten.

Who would give Andrew a handwritten Post-it note with the web address of an anger management course written on it? The Post-it note has the name of a newly approved prescription drug on it. Promotional swag from the drug manufacturer, which means it’s from the desk of a medical professional. It has to be from Malcolm, or someone at work, which tells me something important.

It’s not my imagination.

Andrew has an anger management problem.

And I’m not the only one who thinks so.

EIGHT

ANDREW

Trina has her earbuds in, which I don’t mind. My daughter is quiet. Likes her downtime, which I respect. She catches me looking at her and offers me a warm smile. I pat her on the thigh. I bet she likes it too, the way we can just sit in comfortable silence. Monica would be asking her all sorts of questions. Me, I just let her be.

It hits me, how much things will change if I divorce Monica and we share custody. When I have the kids, all of my mornings will be like today, except worse because I’d be stopping at two schools. Then my commute will be much longer. The backup around the school drop-offs is insane, and I’d get on the highway much later, when the traffic is exponentially worse. I’d have to leave earlier from work to be home for dinner, or hire a sitter to watch them until I get back. Maybe I could get one of those live-in housekeepers. The thought of that makes me uneasy. I don’t want a stranger living in my home.

Taking stock of my situation, I consider the fact that staying married to Monica, at least until the kids go off to college, might be my best option. Sure, I could meet someone else. But that could take time, and the next one might be even crazier than my wife.

The anger management course isn’t total bullshit, I must admit. It’s not focused on healing my inner child, which in all fairness, deserves to rage after the upbringing I had. The course is practical, like me. And I was quite pleased with myself for diffusing the conflict last night with Monica.

What was she trying to pull anyway? She’s worried that Trina will kill herself because of some AI bot? I mean, if she didn’t want to go to my work dinner, she could have just said so. I know her excuse is total bullshit. What I don’t know is why she would backpedal.

What is she up to?

Soon we are at Trina’s school. It costs over fifty grand a year. I would have been fine with the public high school. God knows we pay enough property tax. This was all Monica’s idea.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Trina says.

I kiss my daughter on the top of her head and tell her to have a good day. And instead of driving off, I watch her walk over to her friend and pull out her earbuds, until a car behind me prods me with a short tap on the horn. A rush of emotion washes over me. My little girl is growing up. In four short years, I’ll be watching her walk off to her dorm room.

I was uncharacteristically late to work today, and that fact was not lost on pretty much everyone. It’s clear to me that I can’t make a habit of this, especially if I get the promotion to Chief of Surgery. And all of a sudden, reality comes crashing down, hard. I fear that I am stuck. That I have to make it work with Monica, or else resign myself to having a half-assed career.

It would not be good for the kids in the long run for me to cut back at work. I’d be miserable, and we’d be strapped financially. Yes, I could give Monica more time with the kids through a custody arrangement, but then I’d have to pay her more child support. Even at fifty-fifty, I’d have to fork over some of my higher salary to her. The whole thing would be a nightmare. I can see it unfold before my eyes.

And what kind of asshole doesn’t want fifty-fifty with his kids? It would look bad, even though it’s probably seventy-thirty now, because Monica works a lot less than I do. That was her choice, not mine, but I’ve gotten used to it. I like it, and that’s what she wanted, so what is her problem lately?

The morning was a blur of surgeries and meetings and chaos. Now, I realize that I’m starving. I didn’t eat a real dinner last night. This morning, I managed a slice of toast and two coffees. So, I head to the cafeteria to eat, although it’s only eleven and I rarely take a lunch this early, and when I do, it’s usually on the fly.

They have just set out the hot food and there’s no line. I’m so hungry that even cafeteria food makes my mouth water. A brown gravy simmers, some kind of baked chicken. I rarely get the hot plate, but today is an exception. Baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Real comfort food. I could use some comfort on a day like today. Then I grab a bottle of iced tea from the fridge.

After I pay, I reconsider my plan to eat at my desk. This food is messy, so I sit at a table in the cafeteria instead. Normally, I eat while catching up on paperwork, but I’m so hungry, this won’t take long.

Scarfing down the potatoes first, I slice my knife into the chicken. It feels good to eat with gusto when I’m this ravenous. It would be fun to feel this way about sex, like I want to devour a woman. I used to feel that way about my wife, but it’s been ages since then. It’s hard to feel that way about a person who is constantly criticizing you.

Last night was fine. I still find my wife attractive, and a man has needs. Plus, I have my fantasies to tide me over. But something has been missing for a very long time in that department, and one way or another, I’d like to get some spark back into my life.

A drop of gravy drips onto my chin and down to my scrubs. I wipe it off, laughing at myself. Then I look up and see a cute woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and slate blue eyes smiling at me at the table to my left. She is dressed in a skirt and blouse, not scrubs.

Busted.

I smile back, wiping the gravy from my chin and my shirt. She gets up and starts walking over toward me with her coffee. She’s perky pretty, not sultry like Monica, but it works for her. A kind of girl-next-door look. Petite, with dainty features. Monica is slim but on the taller side, with long brunette curls.

Oh, the thought of getting some variety in my humdrum life.

“Looks like you’re enjoying that meal,” she says. “I love a hearty eater.”

Shrugging, I say, “Busy day.”

“Too busy to make a new friend?” she replies, a sly smile gracing her delicate face.

She holds out her hand, keeping her eyes trained on mine.

Her forwardness catches me off guard, and I feel a little stirring. You don’t expect perky and promiscuous in the same breath. It’s intriguing. I bet she’s full of surprises.

“Well, you can’t have enough friends these days,” I say. “I’m Andrew.”

She offers me the tips of her fingers, very ladylike, then slips her hand into mine. It is warm and dry, her grip delicate yet firm.

“Nice to meet you, Andrew,” she says. “I’m Char. It’s short for Charlene.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Mix it up,” she says. “Surprise me. I like surprises, Andrew. I hope you do, too.”

NINE

ANDREW

The afternoon flew by. It turned into evening, and I’m still at my desk, trying to finish up some paperwork. The truth is, I don’t want to go home. I like it here. I like when things slow down a little and I can just be. When I’m home, I actively avoid interaction with Monica. I’d like to see more of the kids, and if I divorce my wife, then I would be able to do that.

I would not, however, be able to stay late at work unless I hire someone to take care of the kids. Or unless I find another woman and let her into my life. That could backfire, though. I’m not clueless. But I have to admit, my little flirtation at lunch has me thinking more seriously about it.

Charlene and I didn’t talk for very long. She is a pharmaceutical representative, she said. Calls on various hospitals and works mostly from home. The type of woman who would be perfect for me. Divorced. No kids.

“I wanted kids,” she told me. “But he didn’t. That was part of why we split up.”

I didn’t ask her about that, she just offered. She did most of the talking because I was still eating my lunch while she sipped her coffee. I didn’t have much of a chance to ask her a lot of questions. I told her I had two kids, but I didn’t say I was married. Still, she could see my ring, which made me think she’s the type of woman who is okay with an affair.

Her next question confirmed this.

“What do you do for fun, Andrew?” she asked me. Her gaze drifted down toward my lap.

Fun? I hadn’t thought about fun in ages. Who has fun when they’ve got a stressful surgical career, two kids, and a crazy wife?

Blowing out a breath, I replied, “Fun? What’s that?”

She brushed the top of my hand with her fingernails. “That’s a shame,” she said. “Everyone deserves to have a little fun.”

“And what do you do for fun?” I asked her.

She flashed me a coy smile as I braced myself for a racy answer.

What she said surprised me.

“I play chess,” she said.

Maybe that was code for something? Not at all what I was expecting. Still, it was an interesting response.

“Chess?” I stopped eating, sat back, and took in the sight of her, wearing a white chiffon blouse, buttoned just low enough not to look prudish, but not too low-cut. Her silky blonde hair graced the collar, flipping up a little as it did. A smattering of freckles dotted her cheeks, framing a small button nose that looked manufactured.

She shrugged, in a way that indicated that perhaps her response was not code for anything. “My job isn’t all that intellectual, although it’s lucrative. I need something to chew on. I’m very good at it. I love the strategy. The game. Do you play?”

“No, not really. I don’t have the patience. I don’t like games.”

“You should try chess,” she said. “It’s engaging. Gets your mind off of your problems. You seem like you could use a little something to get your mind off your problems.” She takes a sip of her coffee and somehow makes that look sexy.

“We all have problems,” I reply. “And I prefer to think of them as challenges.”

“If you want to learn to play sometime, I’d be happy to teach you.”

Then she airdropped her number into my cell phone.

For a few moments, I was at a loss for words, which I rarely am. I didn’t reciprocate with my contact information, well aware as I was of the slippery slope before me.

“It’ll be fun,” she said. “I promise. And you need some fun in your life, Andrew. That much I can tell.” Then she grabbed her coffee off the table and left. I didn’t see her again.

She didn’t give me a last name. Her contact card just says “C.”

And as I stare down at her initial in my phone, a strange sensation comes over me, an excitement of sorts mixed with trepidation. The whole encounter was a little strange. I know this. But for some reason, I can’t get this Char woman out of my head.

And I’m thinking, that’s exactly what she intended.

TEN

MONICA

Okay, I’ve been working more than usual. I’m not used to being this busy. But I know what I heard the other day. At least, I think I know what I heard. But I could be mistaken. I know what I saw, though. Or at least, I know who I saw.

A woman who called herself Shari Bukowski.

But the thing is, I can’t find any record of a person with that name who looks like the woman from the cafeteria, even if I try a bunch of possible permutations of the spelling. Not on any of the social media sites. Not in Google. When I search for her name with a bunch of possible spellings, there’s nobody who even comes close to the age or career or location of the woman who approached me. I stopped up at the cafeteria around lunchtime hoping to run into her again, and when I didn’t see her, I started to investigate.

But then I got busy. And now here I am, in our home office, looking for this mystery woman instead of making dinner for my family.

Perhaps that’s her married name, and she didn’t change it back when she got divorced. She said we met when we were interns. Or did she say residents? She’s not the woman I first thought she was, that much I know. I found that woman right away, and she’s living in Phoenix, Arizona, and looks a little like this woman, but it’s clearly not the same person.

As I’m calling up her face in my mind’s eye, I do feel a flash of recognition. She has distinctive eyes, a kind of grayish blue. If she was a resident with us, she wasn’t on my team. I do know her from somewhere, but I have a sinking feeling it’s not from our residency. She wasn’t in scrubs. She didn’t look like a doctor. But why would she lie about that?

I tell myself that she herself could have been mistaken. She could have thought she recognized me from that time and then realized it was something else.

The woman seemed so sure, though. So confident. I can hear her voice in my head:

How’s Andrew?

She said it as if his name was top of mind. After nearly a decade, that seems unusual. Still, it is possible she was there that year. And that her maiden name is not Bukowski. That’s the most logical explanation. Andrew is a superstar in our world. Lots of people who studied with us would remember him.

But why would she remember me?

And why does this bother me so much?

Perhaps I’m not as done with Andrew as I think I am. And even if I am, it doesn’t hurt to have something on him. Closing my laptop, I leave it for another time and go tend to my kids.

“What’s wrong?” I say to Trina. She’s picking at her food.

“Nothing,” she mumbles. “I’m just not hungry.”

As I take in the sight of her, I notice that she’s dropped some weight, and I worry for a moment that she’s developed an eating disorder. She shot up a few inches in the last year, which accounts for the slimmer look, but during a growth spurt, I would think she’d be eating more, not less. Maybe it’s tapered off.

Or perhaps the tension between Andrew and me is not lost on her. If it’s affecting my kids, we need to get a better handle on it. I’ll go to his work dinner. Be good. And now reality starts to hit me: how devastating it would be for Trina and Noah if something were to happen to Andrew.

“How was school today?” I ask my son.

“Great,” Noah says. “I got an A on my presentation.” He does a little victory dance in his seat, a cheeky smile planted on his face. I worry sometimes that he’ll grow up to be cocky, like his father.

“That’s great, honey,” I say.

“What about you? Do you like high school?” I ask my daughter.

Trina rolls her eyes. “Mom. What kind of question is that? Just stop. Please.”

“Stop what? I’m just trying to talk to you.”

She lets out a huff. “That’s the problem, Mom. You shouldn’t have to try so hard.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

My daughter lets out a long sigh. “Can I be excused?” Trina says.

“Yeah, I’m done, too. I have homework,” Noah says.

“Fine,” I say.

My children leave me alone at the dinner table.

I would never have talked to my mother the way Trina talks to me. My mother commanded respect from a tender age, extracted with a light slap or two across my butt while she draped me over her lap, holding me captive.

It was the psychological torment that damaged me the most. “Go to your room and think about what you’ve done,” she’d say. I’d sit, sweating in anticipation. It didn’t hurt that much. But what could I have done as a toddler to merit that kind of treatment? Nothing, that’s what, and I’d never do that to a child. If I flinched, she’d say, “It hurts me too. That’s why I use my hand. I got the belt. Consider yourself lucky.”

She played the part of perfect mother to a tee in public. Never a hair out of place. The dinner table set as if she’d used a ruler to line up the plates, forks, and knives.

If I didn’t finish my food, I sat there until it got cold. One time, I nearly choked on an asparagus stalk. I must have been about six. The taste made me gag. She never lost her temper. Not like Andrew. No, she was all measured and controlled as she doled out my punishment.

“You will sit here all night until that food is gone,” she’d say. “One must appreciate what one has and not take it for granted.”

She lives nearby, but we see her only occasionally, although she presses for more. I resent her. Sometimes I even think I hate her, but she’s my mother and a decent grandmother to my children so I keep that bottled up inside. I tried to be different from her, and I find it ironic that Trina seems to hate me anyway. She’s a daddy’s girl, all the way.

And once again, I wonder what would happen if Andrew were gone for good. Maybe my daughter would be nicer to me if she didn’t have a choice.

It’s almost nine in the evening, and Andrew’s still at the hospital. It’s Thursday, and his work dinner is in two days. He’s said nothing about finding a sitter. I don’t really think we need a sitter. I was just using that as an excuse to back out, but I found one anyway. Trina will protest, I know it.

I haven’t checked in with Ben for a few days. The truth is, I miss him. I miss having someone who pays attention to me. He’s a great listener. I wonder, though, if he could be the stalker type. And what would happen if I wanted to call it quits. That’s why I didn’t check in for a few days. I wanted to see how he’d react.

Pulling the burner phone out of my purse, I brace myself. For the possibility that he’s gone off the rails and I’ll find tons of messages demanding that I reply. And also for the possibility that he blew me off and moved on.

I’m a hot mess.

When I open the phone, it’s neither of the two.

There’s a message from three days ago, the last time I texted him.

How’s your evening going?

Then another one two days later.

Miss you. Is everything okay?

This seems tame. No rants. No demands. No cascade of text messages asking where I am.

Normally, I’d have texted him back, and the possibility that he’s slipped away makes my stomach sink. He broke it off with his workaholic girlfriend for me. He’s not going to wait forever. Better to keep my options open, so I respond.

Hi. Sorry. Things have been crazy. How’s your evening?

Staring at the phone like a teenager with a crush, I brace myself for a response.

Nothing.

After twenty minutes or so, Andrew barrels through the door. I’ve missed my chat window, so I tuck the burner in my purse. Greeting my husband, I play the part of happy wife, hoping against all odds that it could someday stop feeling like it’s a role I’m playing. That we could actually be happy again. It would be much easier that way.

“I found a sitter for Saturday. The college girl who lives across the street,” I say.

“Oh yeah. Thanks. I kind of forgot about that,” Andrew says.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Andrew shakes his head. “I ate at work.”

Our interactions are so normal some days. And at times like this, it almost feels like it’s all in my head. Like it’s just my imagination that Andrew’s anger outbursts could be dangerous for me and the kids. Would I have started worrying about this if Ben hadn’t put the idea in my head?

Then I think about that anger management class Andrew is taking. I need to find out more. Who mandated that he take the course, and why. If I can catch Malcolm’s ear on Saturday evening, maybe I can get something useful out of him.

I’m in the bathroom getting ready for bed. I think Andrew’s asleep already. Even if he isn’t, it’s a good time to check in with Ben. Holding my breath for a second, I power up my phone, bracing myself for a ghosting. I see that he’s messaged me back, and I let out a breath, surprised by the relief that washes over me:

Sorry. I was watching a movie. Great to hear from you. Are you okay? I’ve been worried. What did you mean that things are crazy?

I text him back, even though he might be asleep.

I’m fine. Just busy. Sorry.

This time, he doesn’t delay, and I’m happy we can actually connect in real time.

That’s a relief. I was watching The Shining. I guess my imagination is running wild. How have things been with your husband?

That seems an odd non sequitur. I’ve never seen the film, but I’ve seen clips. I’m not that into the supernatural, and I would have never pegged Ben for the kind of guy who would be freaked out by a horror flick.

Don’t worry. No creepy girl ghosts running around the house.

It’s not the girl ghosts that I’m worried about.

What then?

Have you seen the film?

No. Why?

Watch it. You’ll see.

Rather than text Ben back, I watch the trailer and see it’s about a caretaker and his family who go to live at a desolate hotel where a man had murdered his family years before. It doesn’t appear to go well for the new family, either.

Okay. I’ve told Ben mostly bad things about Andrew. It’s true. The first time I opened up to him. The first time our chats veered off into something more than support group friends, it was after one of Andrew’s angry outbursts. I shook with fear as I ran from him and cowered in the bathroom, locking myself in. Ben talked me through it. Soon after that, Ben told me he was going to break up with his live-in girlfriend. He wanted me to file for divorce.

I told him that it wasn’t that simple. That Andrew and I were economically tied together. We could not simply divide everything up and go our separate ways. I told Ben I needed more time.

That’s when he started putting ideas in my head that Andrew could be more dangerous than I knew. He even offered to rough Andrew up a little. Scare him, which I found rather humorous. Andrew is a powerful man. I told him no, but in the back of my mind, I liked the idea of it. Having someone who wanted to protect me.

And now I’m so confused, I don’t even know my own mind.

Is Ben jealous of Andrew? Is he trying to get me to leave him so he can have me to himself? Or am I in denial about my husband? Did those other women whose husbands lost it wait too long? Did their lives end with them struggling to get away, wishing they’d trusted their instincts?

I have to find out more about what happened at the hospital and what’s behind the anger management course. If it weren’t for that, I could bury my head in the sand and go on. But employers don’t mandate classes like that for no reason. I need to speak with Malcolm. If Andrew is as dangerous as Ben believes, I will do something about it. One way or another, I will stay ahead of this. I’m not ending up as his victim, and neither are my kids.

ELEVEN

ANDREW

The hospital feels off today. Unsettled. There’s something in the air, literally and figuratively. I’ve been called down to the ER twice in the last three hours. Wildfires rage out of control a few hundred miles from here, and the winds are blowing the fallout in our direction. It feels claustrophobic. We’ve been told by the authorities to stay inside as much as possible, but it’s blazing hot outside, and there’s no end in sight. It’s late August, and the last few years, it’s stayed hot well into September. We’ve also been advised to go easy on the air conditioning and to expect rolling blackouts.

People are anxious, and when people feel anxious, they have short fuses. They fight with one another. They crash their cars into other people’s cars. They have panic attacks that they think are heart attacks and fill up the ER. And that’s on top of the normal number of accidents and injuries and illnesses that clog up our operating rooms and bump elective surgeries on a regular basis.

It’s Friday, and I’m supposed to be off this weekend, but if my procedures get pushed back, I might have to come in. I suppose that’s fine, as long as I can make it to Malcolm’s for dinner. I’ve got a lot riding on this promotion.

I have not reached out to Charlene yet. I’m surprised at how reticent I feel about crossing the line. Monica’s not all bad. Our marriage isn’t completely dead. For years, my wife has been telling me that I need counseling. That I should process some of the demons from my past. Me, I’ve never believed in dwelling on my childhood. What’s the point? I don’t treat my kids the way I was treated. Shouldn’t that be enough?

I have to admit, though. Sometimes, the rush comes, and even I can’t tell you why. Something hijacks my frontal lobe. Rage overcomes me. The course is giving me some tools to deal with it. I like this approach. Better than curling up in a ball and talking about my abusive father and my alcoholic mother who never wanted me. One thing I can’t stand is when adults blame their problems on their childhoods. Feeble excuses. People have choices. People have agency. To think otherwise is downright depressing.

Entering the ER for the third time today, a quick glance around the room tells me that something is terribly wrong, and not in the usual way.

It’s too still.

When things get crazy busy, the vibe is chaos. The looks on the faces of the medical professionals are focused, driven, and sometimes angry. People rush around shouting at one another, getting under each other’s feet. But I glance around and see something I’ve never seen before on my colleagues’ faces.

I see fear.

“Stay back,” a man calls out, to nobody in particular.

My head whips around to see a guy about my age and size holding a knife to the throat of our attending ER doctor, Jason Whittaker.

Louder, he screams, “Nobody moves! Stay back, all of you, or I’ll kill him. I swear I will!”

Whittaker’s face is ashen. He’s trembling so much, I’m afraid it might cause him to hit up against the blade and slit his own throat. We are not trained for this kind of event. Yes, we’ve had training, like teachers have active shooter training. But this is not what we’re good at. We’re good at remaining calm when other people’s lives are at stake, not when it’s our own.

A code silver alert needs to be called.

But who will call it? Does anyone outside the ER know what’s going on? Probably not. And nobody here dares to move a muscle.

“What do you want?” I say, taking charge of the situation. “How can we help?”

All eyes turn to me as I walk over toward the two of them. The sea parts, as if people want to distance themselves from me and what I’m about to do.

“I said stay back!” he screams.

His hand trembles and the blade flicks closer to Whittaker’s carotid artery. There’s anguish under the man’s anger. Someone he loves has died, or someone is about to die. Hopefully it’s the latter, which would mean he’s trying to get help for a loved one. If we have something he wants, then maybe we can get out of this without a fatality.

I’m just a few feet away from them now, and I don’t dare move any closer.

“You’re taking too long,” he says. “My son. He doesn’t have much time.”

“I understand,” I say. “I have a son, too. Let us help. We can’t help him until you put down the knife. Right now, we can’t help anybody.”

My approach seems to be working. I can see his wheels turning as his ability to think rationally starts to return. His look softens. He’s about to speak.

But then a smaller woman with short brown hair appears in our field of vision.

A child of about eight is draped over her arms.

“Lenny,” she says. “It’s too late.” Tears stream down her face, but she stays silent.

The air is eerily still, devoid of sound waves. Nobody dares to utter a word or move a muscle. If the child is dead, we’ve lost our leverage. He’s going to kill Whittaker, I know he is.

The man’s gaze flicks from the child to me and back to the child, and for a split second, the knife tilts back from Whittaker’s neck.

Lunging for the troubled man, I knock the knife out of his hand, spin him around, and wrap my arms around him. I feel him slacken, and I breathe a little easier, expecting him to crumble.

But then his body erupts in a volcanic plume of fury. He breaks free, spins around, and pummels me in the jaw. And he keeps punching me, like a wild animal fighting for his life.

My reflexes take over.

Before I know it, he’s underneath me, and I’m hitting him.

Over and over and over, until my fists are covered with so much of his blood they slip off on impact, but I wipe my fist on my shirt and keep pounding.

Carmen, one of the ER nurses, cries out. “Dr. Decker! Stop! You’re going to kill him.”

Her words barely register with me.

A security officer pulls me off of him.

By this time, he’s not moving.

Standing up, I take in the scene before me. It’s clear from the look on people’s faces that I’ve crossed a line. Both hero and villain, they don’t know what to make of me.

All except for Jason Whittaker, who turns to me and whispers, “Thanks.”

Right before he passes out.

TWELVE

MONICA

Panic grips me as I race to Palo Alto Medical Center. All I know is that Andrew was attacked in the ER by an intruder. He’s injured, but he’s alive. The minute I got the call, I thought of Ben.

Did Ben take matters into his own hands?

The other night, I made light of his warning. But then I told Ben about Andrew and the anger management class. Why? I don’t know. I suppose I needed some sympathy. Someone to run things past.

He told me what I already knew in my gut: it’s not a good sign. He tried again to get me to leave Andrew. I told him it wasn’t the right time. He didn’t protest. Rather, he grew silent. No rage or anything to indicate he was about to blow. But he did say something to the effect of, I won’t let anything happen to you or your kids, Monica.

What if Ben has gone rogue? I need to get him more under my control. Manage him. Which means I need to meet with him in person, if it’s not too late.

Pulling in, my car straddles two spaces, but I don’t stop to straighten it out. Instead, I whip open my door, charge into the hospital, and rush over to the ER.

Police are here. Part of the ER is taped off and marked “crime scene,” but they can’t close it down completely. People could die. Medical personnel continue to do their jobs, but there’s a somber vibe in the air, their faces as pale as the walking dead.

“Where is Andrew?” I ask Carmen, one of the nurses.

“Being interviewed,” she says. But she doesn’t say by whom. I assume it’s the police.

“He’s okay, then?” I say.

“Yeah. He’s fine. The other guy, not so much.”

“Huh?”

Carmen goes on to tell me how a deranged dad took Jason Whittaker, the attending ER doctor, hostage and held a knife blade to his throat because he wasn’t getting to his child fast enough. “He was lower on the triage protocol than he wanted, but we were swamped,” she says.

I fight to suppress a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t Ben.

This has nothing to do with me.

She tells me that Andrew tried to talk the man down, but then the wife came over from the staging area with the boy draped over her arms and told everyone it was too late, and then all hell broke loose.

“Your husband saved Whittaker’s life,” Carmen says. “But then things took an unfortunate turn.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Andrew subdued the guy, but then he kept hitting him and hitting him and hitting him, like he was in some kind of trance. I shouted at Andrew to stop. Told him he was going to kill the guy, but it was like he couldn’t hear me.”

My stomach roils.

I can picture it.

And I can almost picture those fists pummeling me.

“I… I mean, how did he… why did he even…”

“Oh,” Carmen explains. “The guy attacked Andrew first. It was totally self-defense. It’s just, Andrew went a little overboard, that’s all. But if it wasn’t for Andrew, Jason Whittaker would be dead.”

Fear washes over me, mixed with another emotion I can’t quite place.

Is it admiration? Is Andrew a hero now, I want to ask?

But that seems ill-timed.

Instead, I ask, “Is Andrew in trouble? Is the guy okay?”

“The guy’s not dead or anything. He’ll be fine. But I’m not sure what’s going to happen to Andrew, legally and professionally. Maybe he’ll get sued.” Carmen shrugs.

A lump forms in my throat.

What will this mean for us?

For our family?

Should I fear Andrew?

Or should I come to his defense?

Andrew was brave. He saved a life. The man hit Andrew first.

But still. I know it’s bad.

And I’ve never been more confused in my life.

“Oh, and get this,” Carmen says. “The kid wasn’t even dead. They brought him in for an allergic reaction. But when the antihistamines we gave him kicked in, he folded over like a rag doll because the parents had also given him a dose before they came, which they forgot to tell us. His mom freaked out thinking he was dead, but he’s fine now. Except for the fact that his dad will probably be going to prison.”

I’m pacing outside Malcolm’s office. His assistant comes to greet me, a peppy young woman with freckles and strawberry blonde hair she wears in a high ponytail. She looks only slightly older than Trina, but that does not seem possible.

“What can I do for you?” she asks.

She must be new because we’ve never met. I know most of Andrew’s co-workers because he’s been here a long time, but not her. I tell her who I am, and her jaw stiffens. Then her gaze flicks up and down my form, as if she’s checking out the competition. I’m used to it. She’s crushing on Andrew. Just one of many to come before her.

“Your husband did a brave thing today,” she says. “But you don’t want to stand out here and wait for him. He might be a while. Maybe go to the cafeteria and I’ll tell him to meet you there when he’s finished.”

With a dismissive wave of the hand, I say, “I’ll be fine here. Don’t worry about me. Just go back and do your job.”

We eye each other, but I don’t flinch.

She looks away, and then back at me.

“You can sit there, if you want.” She points to a pair of armchairs outside her alcove, in the hallway.

“I know where to sit,” I reply. “But thanks.”

Then the peppy assistant with the hots for my husband goes back to work, like a good little girl. Once I’m no longer in her frame of vision, I sit. Then I pull out my phone and start reading through the messages between Ben and me.

I’m trying to discern if there’s anything that could incriminate me, in the event Ben does try to take matters into his own hands. This was a close call, and I realize I need to be more careful about what I say and how I say it during our interactions.

Most alarming is a string of messages we exchanged after a particularly troubling Andrew outburst, about a month ago. It was just after Ben started putting ideas in my head about Andrew and his potential to hurt me, at first dropping hints here and there. Later, he was more direct, when he flat-out stated that my husband could be dangerous for me and my children.

The night of this troublesome text exchange, things had gotten a little crazy earlier in the evening. Andrew and I fought about money. My husband claimed I wasn’t “pulling my weight” financially. This is from a man who hadn’t attended a back-to-school night or a parent-teacher conference, ever.

Did he have any idea how hard it was, competing with the professional moms? The ones who didn’t work at all. The ones who were bright and educated enough to have had high-powered careers but gave it all up to curate their children and manage their futures. I was doing the best I could, I asserted. Splitting the difference. Bringing in a good salary and doing 80 percent of the work of raising our kids and keeping our household afloat, our children headed in the right direction.

But all he said was, “You’re a delusional narcissist, Monica. Stop pretending it’s about the kids.”

That night, I threw a mug at him and just missed his forehead. That night, Andrew flipped out. It’s the most violent either of us has ever gotten. He didn’t hit me, but it’s the closest he’d ever come. I was terrified. He grabbed me by the arm and shook his fist inches from my face as I cowered at his feet. I broke free, bolted, and locked myself in the guest bathroom while Andrew tried to kick in the door.

I stood inside, texting Ben as my hands shook, debating whether or not I should tell Ben to call the police—until I heard my husband slam the front door shut. I have no idea where Andrew went. It’s the only time he’s stayed away all night. And the next day, I didn’t ask him where he’d been. We never spoke of it again.

So later that night, when I’d had a glass of wine and half a Xanax, I chatted with Ben as I watched a movie on Netflix about a woman who got her lover to murder her husband.

He told me he’d seen it.

He also said he didn’t like the ending.

I lied and told him I didn’t like the ending, either.

Then he said:

She should have taken him with her.

And I agreed with him.

That could read like a suggestion, if a detective were to comb through my chats. Like I was telling Ben that if he murdered my husband, I’d run away with him to an exotic land where we could spend all of my dead husband’s money.

Except that my husband doesn’t have millions of dollars, and I don’t want to run away with anybody. I want to stay in Menlo Park and raise my kids. And I definitely don’t want to go to prison for conspiracy to commit murder.

What have I done?

THIRTEEN

ANDREW

In three short minutes, I blew up my entire career. There is no way that I’ll be promoted to Chief of Surgery after what happened yesterday. I might even be let go. That’s a terrible realization, but it’s one I need to face. I’m on probation, and I need to get an attorney. If the man files criminal charges, I may need two of them. The hospital’s legal team can represent me in a civil suit, but they work for the hospital, not me. I’ll need someone who just looks out for me.

I should be feeling anger, but I’m not. I left it all on the field, and now I’m simply exhausted. Emotionally and physically spent. And confused. What kind of world is this, where a guy can walk into an ER, hold a knife to a doctor’s throat, and come out looking sympathetic?

Yes, I’ve got a hearty fight or flight response. Shouldn’t that be a good thing? Jason Whittaker would be dead if it weren’t for me. Hopefully that will count for something.

Monica was supportive, to the extent that she could be. Emotional support is not her strong suit, but she is effective and focused at managing a crisis situation, and she’s already got a list of lawyers to contact, all curated, with notes on their specialties. This doesn’t mean she cares about me. But she’s got almost as much to lose as I do; our futures are intertwined. She’s a survivor, and I’m fortunate to have her on my side, for now.

But I need more than my wife can give me.

So, in the face of the biggest crisis of my adult life, I pull out my phone and send a text:

I’m ready to have some fun.

Then I pore over Monica’s list and start calling attorneys.

“You’ve played before?” Char says.

Things are not going the way I pictured it. Not at all. The woman actually wants to play chess. I wonder if this is some kind of foreplay for her. If, at the end of our little game, she’ll turn crazy kinky and it’ll all be worth it.

After a little back and forth, we decided to meet at a hotel off the 101 in East Palo Alto that caters to business travelers. Char said she’d text me the room number when she got there, and two hours later, she did. And now, here I am, on the sixth floor of a generic but tidy hotel room, sitting on a king-size bed still made up, trying to decide my next move.

“A long time ago,” I say.

“What do you remember?” she asks.

“I remember that it was complicated,” I say.

And boring as hell.

“Life is complicated,” she says. “So try to break it down. What’s the most important thing to remember?”

“Protect the king,” I say.

She corrects me. “Protect your king. And how do you do that?”

I shrug. This is not why I came here. Sighing, I start to speak.

She answers for me. “You stay one step ahead of your opponent.”

Then she gives me a basic refresher. Pawns can move one space in either direction, unless it’s the first time they move, then they can move two steps. She goes on about the other pieces. The rook. The knight. But I’m barely listening. I’m thinking about Malcolm’s assistant. I should have hit on her instead of hooking up with this nut job.

“Should we just start?” I suggest. “I’m more of a tactile learner.”

“Oh, we’re not going to play today,” she says. “All in good time. But there’s one more point to cover today. It’s very important.”

“What’s that?”

She smiles. “The queen is the most powerful piece on the board.” With that, she lies on her back and arches it.

I follow suit.

Finally, our mouths meet.

She teases me with her tongue and then pulls back.

“Close your eyes,” she says.

She runs her hand up my thigh.

The anticipation has revved me up to a fever pitch.

“Andrew,” she says, in a breathy tone.

I’m nearly bursting.

It’s about to happen.

“Let’s take off our⁠—”

“Shh,” she says. “Lie down. Keep your eyes closed.”

I do as she says.

“Imagination is powerful, Andrew. Imagine what it feels like, running your hand up my inner thigh. It’s silky smooth. Warm. Inviting. Can you feel it?”

I almost can.

“Yeah,” I moan.

“Keep going, Andrew. Higher and higher, until you get to that warm, wet place you’re craving so much right now. How do you feel?”

I feel like I’m going to burst, but that’s not what she wants to hear.

“I feel… excited,” I say.

“Now take off your pants but keep your eyes closed. Great sex is in the mind, Andrew. Not the body. Just like chess, it’s all in the head. Keep going. Imagine your next move,” she says. “Be patient.”

And now I get it. Why we started with chess. I’m on the edge, about to spill over, and we haven’t even done anything yet. I can’t wait to plunge into her.

There’s silence for a few long moments.

Is she taking off her clothes?

I hear the door click.

When I open my eyes, Charlene’s gone.

What the fuck just happened?

FOURTEEN

MONICA

“What did the attorney say?” I ask Andrew.

“I didn’t get a chance to meet with her. We just spoke on the phone. I’ve got an appointment on Monday.”

“Then where were you all this time?”

Andrew has just walked in the door after being gone all day, and I can’t get a good read on how he’s coping. It’s Saturday, and it might not be hitting him as much as it will on Monday, when he has to stay home. Rather than answer me, he cups my chin in his hand and kisses me softly on the lips.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“Can’t a guy kiss his wife for no reason?”

“Not likely,” I say, although I do so with a smile on my face. “What’s your game?”

“No game,” he says. “Just, thanks for sticking by me, Mon. I appreciate it. This whole thing is total bullshit. And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m your wife, Andrew. What else would I do?”

Sometimes a crisis can pull a family together, and speeding over to the hospital, frantic that Ben may have done something to the father of my children, was a wake-up call. I have to be more careful. There’s too much at stake to give in to vengeance. And I really need to watch what I say online and how I say it.

My mother got wind of what happened yesterday, and she’s due at our house any minute now. It’s the last thing I need, but I can’t tell her not to come. Well, I could, but I can’t, if that makes any sense at all.

She never approved of Andrew. Didn’t think he was right for me, which made me want him even more. Andrew’s family wasn’t poverty-stricken, but they struggled. My mother has an inkling about Andrew’s abusive father, and she knows that his mother was a drunk. That much was obvious. They are both dead now, and I’m glad. I would not want those two around my children.

But my mother is a hypocrite. Yes, I know there’s a difference between slapping a child on the butt and the hell Andrew went through, but her hands aren’t so clean. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s so good to Trina and Noah, I’d see a lot less of her.

“My mother is on her way over,” I say to Andrew.

Andrew lets out a huff. “Not today, Monica. Please.”

“She heard what happened. What could I say?”

“I’m not staying here then,” he says.

“Where will you go?”

“I’ll go to the hos…” He catches himself. “Damn it!”

And it hits him, just how screwed he is. Work is Andrew’s life. How will he cope? I think about what I researched, about men who lose everything and turn into family⁠—

The doorbell rings, sparing me from my dark thoughts.

“Too late to escape, Andrew,” I say, waving him off. “Just, it’ll be fine.”

I’m not so sure about that. I tell myself that the kids will make it tolerable. My mother won’t say anything horrible in front of them. I call out to Trina and Noah, with a grace note of desperation in my pronouncement:

Gramma’s here!

“Andrew.”

It’s only one word, but we all hang on it, attempting to read between the lines. Normally, my mother’s posture is impeccable, but today she leans forward slightly, almost in an inviting manner.

She wears a billowy white blouse and tan slacks that hug her thin frame, her makeup spare but effective. She looks a good half-decade younger than she is, but not in a way that says she’s trying too hard. A few years ago, she started wearing her hair shorter, but it’s still nearly shoulder length. Dark brown like mine, with not a touch of gray. My mother is stunning. Always has been, always will be.

They take in the sight of one another as the kids prance down the stairs. Few people render Andrew speechless, but my mother is one of them. I’ve never seen him so intimidated by another human being.

“Come,” she says to him.

Andrew takes a step forward. “Hello, Kathleen,” he says.

She places a hand on his shoulder. “My son-in-law. The hero. Well done, son.”

“Gramma!” Noah chimes. “I missed you!” He grabs her by the legs, and she pats his head.

Andrew turns to me. Bewilderment washes over him, followed by the hint of a smile.

“Mom, we can’t …” I jut my head toward the kids, indicating that we don’t want to bring up the hospital incident in front of the children.

“I’m not an idiot, Monica.” She turns to Andrew. “Why does my daughter think I’m an idiot?”

Andrew shrugs.

Are they ganging up on me now?

This is unprecedented, but maybe not that surprising, given what happened to my father. Still, what does this mean?

Mother takes Trina by the hand. “Come, dear,” she says. “Tell me all about your new high school.”

Trina trots along with my mother while Noah trails behind. “It’s different,” she says. “Without any boys around.”

“Good different?” Mom asks.

Letting out a sigh, I try to be happy that their relationship is strong, but I have to wonder. Why was I passed over? Is it me? Why am I sandwiched between a mother and a daughter I can’t seem to connect with?

An hour later, Andrew gets a call, while Mother is visiting with Trina and Noah.

His eyes widen. He turns to me and mouths, “It’s Malcolm.”

My stomach twists as I wait, wondering if he’s getting fired. Or arrested. Or both.

Then his head bobs up and down. “Yes, yes, of course. We’ll be there,” he says. He turns to me. “We’re still on for dinner. What does that mean?”

“It’s good news,” I tell my husband. “It must be.”

My mother enters our space, about to wrap up her visit. “What’s good news?” she asks.

“Andrew was in the running for Chief of Surgery,” I say. “Is in the running. We think.”

“You think?” she asks.

Andrew chimes in, explaining about the dinner, and that he assumed he was no longer welcome after what happened, but that his boss just called to confirm.

“You should never assume, Andrew. Thank goodness he called.”

“Did you cancel the sitter?” Andrew asks me.

“Yes,” I say. “But don’t worry. Trina can handle it.”

Mother lets out a huff. “Are you both daft? Your name is in the news now. You’ve made an enemy out of a man who will go to prison because of you. I’ll stay with the children,” she says. “What time is your dinner?”

“Six,” Andrew says.

“I’ll be back at five-thirty. In the meantime, expect a call from my attorney. He’ll make sure this all blows over. Quickly. We need to control the narrative, Monica. Have you learned nothing from me?”

With that, she marches to the front door and exits, leaving Andrew and me standing in our living room like a pair of small children after a scolding, feeling guilt and shame for the first time. She has a way of making people feel like that.

Still, she’s a good person to have on our side. Deep pockets and even deeper connections. It’s likely that she’s already called a few board members at the hospital and instructed them to go lightly on her son-in-law, and that directive has made its way to Malcolm Lang.

Andrew turns to me. “You could learn a thing or two from your mother, Monica.” Then he saunters off, secure in the belief that my mother will come to the rescue, seemingly learning nothing from this close call.

After he does, I do the only thing I can think of to make me feel better.

I pull out my burner and reply to a text from Ben:

Yes. After work Wednesday. I’ll see you then.

FIFTEEN

ANDREW

“Malcolm,” my wife says. “Thanks so much for having us over.”

Malcolm sandwiches my wife’s outstretched palm between his large hands. “Monica. Thanks for coming, with all you have going on.” He pulls her in for a compulsory hug and a firm pat on the back.

“Of course,” she says.

Glancing around the living room, I don’t see any of my competitors, and I struggle to figure out what this means. Am I out? Am I in? Did Monica’s mother seal the deal for me? Or is this something else altogether? The vibe feels a little off, as if I’m missing something.

“Hi, Malcolm,” I say. “Thanks for having us over.”

“Well, thank you for coming, after what you’ve been through.”

“I’m fine,” I assert.

I don’t want anyone thinking I’ve “been through” something. That sounds like mandated therapy to me. That doesn’t sound like the description of someone who’s about to be promoted.

Malcolm looks us both up and down. “What’s say we head to the living room? Can I get you a drink? Dorothy’s just finishing up in the kitchen. She’ll be out soon.”

My boss ushers us from the foyer to the living room.

Their home is in Redwood City, a little north of Menlo Park, where we live. Their house is larger than ours, but not by much. But prices are a little lower here than in our neighborhood. Our home is worth more, I’m sure. But neither of our homes look like they merit a multi-million-dollar price tag. It’s just a house. Not a mansion. Nothing special.

Monica says I’ve got too much stuff for the size of our house, but that’s not my fault. I’d sooner have stayed in New Jersey, where we could afford a bigger home. We moved back here for Monica’s career opportunity, which she promptly tossed in the trash.

We met here, in the Bay Area. She was an intern and I was a senior resident, and when I got a prestigious fellowship offer in New Jersey, Monica told me to take it. She seemed eager to leave California, so I’ve often wondered why she pushed to come back.

I bet it had something to do with her inheritance, and Kathleen wanting to be closer to Trina and Noah. She doesn’t tell me much about the family finances, since I’m not involved. The trust clearly states that I have no claim to any of the money, which we don’t even have access to, so I don’t care.

“What would you like to drink?” Malcolm asks my wife.

“A vodka and tonic,” she says.

“Andrew?”

“Honestly, I’d love a cold beer, if you have one. It’s so damn hot out.”

“That sounds perfect. I think I’ll join you.” Malcolm heads to the kitchen, leaving my wife and me sitting on his tan leather sofa, side by side. The house is neat, California casual. They are empty nesters, and it shows.

“I thought the other candidates were supposed to be here,” she says.

Shrugging, I say, “He never came out and said that, but it’s what I assumed.”

“What do you think it means?” Monica asks.

Shaking my head, I say, “Hell if I know.”

We wait in tense silence, until Monica breaks it. “Andrew?”

“Yes?”

My wife looks at me with a probing eye, and it’s times like this I see her mother in her. They are not as different as she thinks. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

My pulse ticks up a notch.

Does she know about Charlene?

There’s a strict infidelity clause in the prenup they made me sign, which doesn’t matter all that much because the trust is set up so that Monica gets nothing until Kathleen kicks the bucket, and we all know that woman will live forever, just to spite everyone. But her mother did give us a down payment for our house, so I suppose that would be an issue if Monica divorced me. I would not even get half a house, and half a house is not nearly enough to stay here.

Plus, a cheating scandal is the last thing I need right now. That would be my luck. Get busted for infidelity when I didn’t even get laid. Technically speaking, I’ve been faithful to my wife the entire time we’ve been married, even in the face of so much temptation. Women throw themselves at me, and I push them away. But that will count for nothing if that psycho chick tries to blackmail me. I wish I knew what her game was.

“About?” I ask.

Monica lets out a sigh, and this confuses me. She looks almost sympathetic. “About work.”

“What about work?” I ask her.

But Malcolm and Dorothy enter, so I don’t have a chance to find out what she’s talking about. At least she didn’t follow me to the hotel and find out about that lunatic. We rise and do the greeting rituals, and Dorothy places a tray on the table. Malcolm hands us our drinks and goes back to the kitchen. I take a long sip of my chilled Corona, and it goes down like heaven.

I realize I’m very hungry, so I grab a cracker and a slice of cheese and pop it in my mouth as Monica and Dorothy make small talk. Monica fills her in on the kids, sharing all her worries and concerns about their futures, and Dorothy tries to assure my wife that it’ll all work out.

Dorothy leans forward, toward my wife. “I remember myself back then. Being so stressed out about my kids. There’s so much competition here. So much pressure to excel. It’s hard not to get caught up in it. But trust me. Time flies by. Your kids will be gone before you know it. Don’t forget to lighten up once in a while and have some fun. It’s those silly memories that will flash before your eyes on your deathbed, the ones where you’re all laughing and goofing off. Most of the time, kids turn out just fine. Money and success are meaningless without happiness.”

This causes me to sit up straighter. Dorothy makes a valid point, but it sounds like something you’d say to someone who’s about to be told they are not getting a promotion.

Malcolm comes back and sits across from my wife and me, in the armchair next to Dorothy. Rather than beating around the bush, I decide to be bold.

“It feels like you want to tell me something,” I say to him. “If you do, feel free to be blunt with me. I’m a straight shooter.”

“I like that about you,” he says.

“Does it have to do with Chief of Surgery?”

“Yes, but it’s probably not what you’re thinking.”

Monica and I turn to each other. My wife’s brow furrows in anticipation.

Malcolm continues. “Nobody is getting promoted to Chief of Surgery. Lydia Patel has decided to stay on.”

“She’s not retiring?”

“Not just yet. She wants to stay on for a while.”

“How long is a while?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Legally, I’m not allowed to ask those kinds of questions.”

This isn’t the worst news I could get. It means they’re kicking the can down the road. Maybe my mother-in-law intervened, and this was the only solution they could come up with. There’s still a chance, which is better than being passed over.

“Well, that’s her right, I suppose. I like working for her.”

It’s true. She’s fair and measured, with a good sense of humor. It could be worse. If he’d promoted my nemesis Neil Thompson, it would have been a disaster. We despise each other, and he’d have lorded it over me for eternity.

“That’s great to hear,” Malcolm says. “And we’ll want you back to work on Monday. You can scrub in and assist, until your hands are good to go. The father has decided not to press any charges against you, and it’s up to you how you handle things on your end. But we’d prefer it if you let him take a plea deal and keep this from blowing up any further in the media, rather than trying to press the issue. All in all, it was an unfortunate situation.”

“Isn’t that more Jason Whittaker’s call? He’s the one who was almost killed.”

“Jason doesn’t want to go to court. None of us do. We’d just like to move on.”

So, after all of that, I’m right back where I started, which, all things considered, is not the worst outcome.

As we’re being ushered to the dinner table, Malcolm pulls me back and lets our wives walk out of earshot.

“And don’t forget to finish the course. Before Monday. That’s non-negotiable. Keep your head down. Do your job. That’s not a request, it’s an order. Do you read me?”

Nodding, I say, “I do.”

Loud and clear.

This sucks, but it’s better than being fired.

But now I owe Kathleen, big time, and she’s the type to collect on her debts.

What will she demand from me?

Will my life ever be my own?

SIXTEEN

MONICA

I have excellent hearing.

It’s not a big claim to fame, but it is an asset.

Saturday night, I heard Malcolm instructing my husband to “finish the course” before Monday. I assume he meant the anger management course, and I assume Andrew did as he was told. My husband shut himself in the den for a few hours on Sunday, with clear instructions that he didn’t want to be disturbed.

It was the best Saturday we’ve had in ages. First, the spontaneous kiss early that afternoon, followed by the kind words. Then, Andrew resting his hand on my thigh on the way home in the car. Stroking my hair in bed. If he wanted sex, he didn’t press me too hard for it. It was almost as if he wanted to reconnect on an emotional level. He was affectionate, in a way he hasn’t been for so long. Perhaps being called out for his anger at work is having a positive impact at home. Maybe he’s finally realized that he needs to change.

But I’m skeptical. Guardedly optimistic, you could say. Because, after all, Malcolm mandated that my husband take an anger management course, and Andrew needs me in his corner because of the hospital incident. And Malcolm mandated this course before the ER brawl. There must be a reason for that. I need to know what it is. I need more information.

So that I don’t get too sentimental, I make sure to call up his angry face every now and then, or glance over at the new bathroom door he installed after he kicked in the old one and split it in two. I can’t allow myself to get charmed back into complacency. Even if he’s willing to change, he might not be capable of it.

And there’s always the possibility that he’s playing me.

Jason Whittaker and I used to be friends. Back when I had friends, at my last full-time job, when we moved back here five years ago. Well, not friends, exactly. But close associates, before I quit to work part-time, and before Jason moved over to Andrew’s hospital. Not in a sordid way, though. Not like that.

We respected each other. We worked well together. I pushed my team to get answers to the ER as quickly as possible, and he appreciated it. If the ER gets backed up, people die. I understood this, but not everyone does. I made it a priority to get the radiology results back to him as quickly as possible, and he appreciated it.

Meeting with Malcolm seemed like a bad idea. It would look strange. Andrew’s wife, checking up on him. I told Jason I wanted to meet with him to see how he was doing after nearly having his throat slit. Well, I didn’t put it like that, obviously, but that was the gist of it.

My plan is to get him talking. Get his impression of Andrew’s behavior, and see if there have been other incidents I don’t know about. We meet at a coffee shop in Palo Alto, near Andrew’s workplace, which is on my way to work.

I told my supervisor I was going to be late this Monday morning, and under the circumstances, he is being supportive. My husband saved a life, prevented a tragedy from occurring. But it’s a complicated situation, and we need some time to sort things out, I said. Walt offered me the whole day off, but I assured him that wasn’t necessary. Truthfully, I need the distraction. Work gets my mind off of my problems and focused on the problems of others. I enjoy the respite. I enjoy my work.

It’s a little awkward in the beginning, because Jason and I haven’t seen each other in a few years. He’s maybe two years younger than me. Not drop-dead handsome like Andrew, but attractive. At least, I find him attractive. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and kind eyes. Lanky, with a good sense of humor.

When we worked together, he was married. I wasn’t his supervisor, but I was above him on the hospital food chain. Now he’s divorced, and our opening chatter feels almost like a date, which is not at all what I wanted. I hope he hasn’t gotten the wrong idea.

So, I get to the point. “Jason. I need to ask you something. Something about Andrew.”

He nods, like he’s been expecting this, but I sense an undercurrent of disappointment. “I figured this wasn’t a social call.”

“Well, it is,” I tell him. “I’ve been worried about you. I wanted to see⁠—”

He holds up a hand. “You don’t need to fake it, Monica. It’s not your place to be worried about me. What can I do for you?”

“It’s just, that day in the ER? Carmen told me what happened. How Andrew saved you. But I wanted to hear what happened, from your perspective.”

He shrugs. “Andrew saved my life. I owe him. I’m grateful, so don’t worry. If it comes to that, I won’t say anything that will get you guys sued.”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “Oh, no. That’s not what I mean. The legal issues have pretty much been cleared up. I heard you didn’t want to go to court. Neither does Andrew. I think the father will take a plea deal. It looks like this will blow over. That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Then what are you worried about?” he asks.

“It’s just, according to Carmen, Andrew went a little… overboard. But I’d like a man’s perspective. Do you think you’d have done the same, in that situation?”

“Oh,” he says, pursing his lips, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Well, I suppose you never know until you’re in it, do you?”

I can tell he’s holding back. “No, you don’t. But how did it look, to you? Do you think Andrew went overboard?”

Letting out a sigh, he says, “I think Andrew saved my life. And whatever happened, it’s staying inside the walls of the hospital. So why are you asking? Why aren’t you letting this go?”

“I wanted to know if there have been other incidents like this at work. When Andrew overreacted. When his temper got the better of him.”

Jason’s brows rise. “I see. I mean, he’s a bit of a hothead, as you probably know. But Monica? Is there something going on, at home?” He places his hand on mine. “If there is, you can tell me.”

Our eyes meet. Jason sees the worry in mine. The fear I don’t let anyone see, because then I’d have to admit it to myself. It’s one of those moments you can never take back, and instantly, I regret it.

“No,” I say, pulling my hand out from under his. “I mean, I’m just worried about how this will play out, with his promotion.”

“Right,” he says. Then he takes a sip of his coffee.

I realize I haven’t touched mine yet, so I follow suit, trying to act casual. Like we are just two friends, catching up. “How is Logan?” I ask. That’s his son.

Jason doesn’t take the bait. “He’s fine, thanks for asking. As I said, Andrew is a hothead, Monica. And a hotshot. He slams doors. He pounds things with his fists. He yells at people, and the next minute, he laughs it off. He gets away with it because he’s intermittently charming and funny, and great at his job. But if someone has a true propensity for violence, it usually shows up at home before it shows up at work. You know that, and I know you know that. If something is going on, you can tell me.”

“I need to get going,” I say.

“If you’re not ready to deal with it, I respect that. If you ever are, I’m here.”

I attempt to look indignant when I say, “It’s nothing,” but I fail miserably.

“Right,” he says.

“Thanks for the coffee. And please keep this conversation to yourself.” Grabbing my latte, I start to stand, but he puts his hand on mine again, and I linger in the safety of its warmth, just for a moment.

“Okay, I will,” he says. “But if I were you, I’d err on the side of caution. I know you’re scared, Monica. And you can trust me.”

Once I reach my car, I start it up.

But then I turn it off.

My hands are shaking too much to drive, and it’s not from the caffeine.

Maybe it’s time for me to move on. Maybe it’s time to give Ben the chance he’s been asking me for. Maybe it’s time to get out of my marriage to Andrew, while I still can. I can’t let the memory of our good years together cloud my judgment, or let myself be sucked in by his intermittent charm. Even if he admits he has a problem and says he wants to change, I need a backup plan. And he hasn’t admitted he has a problem. In fact, he said the whole hospital thing was bullshit. He might not be capable of change.

But if I divorced him, how can I make sure my children will be safe when they’re with him? It would be nearly impossible to get full custody of the kids, but being a single parent would put even more stress and financial pressure on Andrew.

I have to figure something out, because Jason is right. I am afraid of my husband and what he might do, and that’s no way to live, for any of us. Waiting for my husband to snap and kill me. I need to talk to an attorney and find out what my options are.

Before it’s too late.

SEVENTEEN

MONICA

Cheryl Bronson is the premier family law attorney in the Bay Area. She is confident, direct, and commanding. Short, dark hair. A handsome, angular face that’s hard to peg in terms of age. She has the kind of face that looks the same at thirty as it does at fifty: in the earlier decades, appearing older than her age; later in life, looking younger.

She gets great settlements for her clients, and it shows in her stylish office with leather furniture and trendy modern art on the walls. She’s armed with an expert investigator who can dig up dirt and find those skeletons in the closet to really stick it to an ex, financially speaking. I had my hopes up heading into this meeting.

But custody battles, she tells me, are a different story. “It’s going to be nearly impossible to get full custody of your kids,” she says, flat out, like she’s said it many times before.

“What about Piqui’s Law?” I ask.

Signed into California law in 2024 after a father in the midst of a custody battle killed his five-year-old son on an unsupervised trip to Disneyland, the law mandates that courts prioritize child safety in custody disputes over all other factors. The mother had warned the courts about her husband, a convicted spouse abuser, but since he’d never hurt his child, the judge granted him unsupervised visitation, and, tragically, the mother’s fears were confirmed.

The grieving mother fought valiantly for the law, to make a difference for others in her situation. I wonder, though. Did it help her? Did it give her peace? I admire her, and I’m grateful for her efforts. But could I be that strong and noble in the face of such tragedy and injustice? Or would I just crumble, or grow bitter and vengeful?

“I see you’ve done your homework,” she says. “And I understand your concerns. I share them. In that case, there was evidence of spousal abuse, which you don’t have. And still, the judge ruled in the father’s favor. Piqui will take time to make an impact. It’s a good start, but we still have a lot of work to do to dismantle the parental alienation defense. I assume, since you’ve done some research, you know what that is?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve read up on it. But hasn’t that theory been challenged?”

I read about it. It’s a theory used in custody cases that makes it much more difficult to shield a child from an unfit parent, suggesting that being denied access to a parent does so much damage to a child that it’s worse than shielding them from the less ideal parent.

“In psychology, yes. But courts of law can be slow to change, and judges still have a lot of latitude.” Even worse, she tells me, in practice, it’s often used against mothers, to claim that their allegations of sexual or physical abuse are revenge tactics. “And sometimes, they probably are. But often they are not, and in that case, the courts are putting children in far more danger by granting them unsupervised visitation or even joint custody when there are claims of abuse, either proven or not.” She shakes her head, obviously troubled by these statistics, but seemingly powerless to change them.

“So what do I do?”

“Do you have any evidence against your husband? Anyone who could corroborate your allegations?” she asks.

“There was an incident at the hospital.” I tell her about it. She’s already heard about it in the news, but I fill her in on Andrew’s overreaction. I reveal that his employer mandated an anger management class even before the altercation in the ER.

Silicon Valley’s premier divorce attorney shakes her head, and a lead ball lands in the pit of my stomach. “It was self-defense, and the man didn’t press charges against your husband. A judge wouldn’t bat an eye at that. What about in the home? Has he been aggressive with your children? Have they seen him get aggressive with you?”

I take a minute before I answer. Trina and Noah have heard us argue, but our worst moments pass in private. Plus, I do not want to involve my children in this. I don’t want them dragged into it.

I let out a sigh. “He’s a good dad,” I admit. “He never yells at the kids. He’s never laid a hand on them. All of his anger is directed at me. But then I do most of the child-rearing. He’s a workaholic, so it all falls on me. There’s nothing for him to get upset with them about.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he won’t turn on them if you go on the offensive. It happens, more often than you would think. The pressure of divorce and the added stress of being accused of abuse can push a person over the edge, even though that’s counterintuitive. There have been hundreds of documented cases over the last few decades when that has happened. When a parent in the midst of a nasty custody battle killed their own child.”

My stomach roils at the thought of it, and I don’t get where she’s going with this. “So, wait. Are you telling me that you think I have a case? Because I thought you just said I don’t have a case.”

“I’m telling you I think it’s a big risk to try to divorce your husband by claiming abuse and going after full custody. It’s been known to backfire in court, especially if you don’t have any proof. It might make him harder to manage, and it might even push him over the edge.”

“Then what are you suggesting? You’re telling me this, and then you’re telling me I don’t have a case. Why are you putting these additional fears in my head?”

“Because I deal in reality. Has he been unfaithful? Is there another reason you could file for divorce that would be less incendiary? Or could you just settle for a marriage of convenience until they both turn eighteen? It’s not that long, in the bigger picture.”

My brows rise. “You think I should stay in a marriage where I feel unsafe for another decade? That’s your best advice?”

Some hotshot attorney.

“I’m telling you what I really think. I’m telling you what I would do if I were you, or what I’d tell you if you were my sister. From a legal perspective, you don’t stand a chance of getting full custody by using an abuse allegation with the way things are now. I’m almost sure it would backfire if you went that route. I wouldn’t even take the case if that’s the direction you wanted to go. You told me yourself that you have no evidence of these outbursts. You have no proof. Any judge would think it was a revenge play.”

“So you don’t think my husband is dangerous? You think it’s all in my head?”

“On the contrary. I think he could be more dangerous than he is now, if you go down that road. I’ve seen it before. I hate that I have to be so blunt. But I’d hate it more if you or your kids became another statistic of a failed system. If I were you, I’d be more strategic.”

Now she’s got my attention. “How so?”

“You said he doesn’t pitch in much. Perhaps you could go for fifty-fifty in the divorce, and then offer to take the kids off his hands more. If he’s as much of a workaholic as you say, he’ll probably jump at the chance. And you didn’t answer my question about the infidelity. Do you think he’s been unfaithful? Would that perhaps be a better reason to give him for the divorce? One that wouldn’t upset him as much?”

I don’t want to tell this woman any more than what I’ve already told her about my personal life. I need time to think. If I just shut my mouth and let Andrew run roughshod over me, could I get through another ten years? I’ve already become a doormat, and I hate myself for it. It’s killing me inside. Making me angry and bitter. Turning me into a different person. But if I push back, or try to make him go to counseling, then what? Will he snap? Is he as dangerous as Ben suggests? Or am I making too much of it?

“Right now, I don’t have any evidence of infidelity or abuse,” I say.

“If that changes, let me know. Until then, I’d say hope for the best. Maybe the anger management class at work will help. There are lots of people who have anger outbursts and never lay a hand on anyone. If he’d made someone feel unsafe at work, they would have fired him, not mandated an anger management class.”

We wrap up our consultation, with her lame attempts at making me feel better about my predicament falling flat. As I’m walking out her office door, I turn around and quip, “So what happens if he snaps and kills me? Does he get custody then?”

My dark humor is lost on her. “In that case,” she says, “he’d go to prison. Provided they could prove it was your husband who killed you.”

I turn around and step through the doorway, rolling my eyes. Now I have to worry about Andrew getting away with murdering me.

Thanks for nothing, hotshot attorney.

Then a thought crosses my mind. If I could get some evidence that Andrew was cheating, I could threaten to invoke the infidelity clause in our prenup, which might make him more manageable. I could use it as a bargaining tool to get him into therapy. Get him to find a better way to process his feelings. I have a hunch that the woman who calls herself Shari Bukowski knows something, whoever she is, and I need to find her.

So, Cheryl Bronson wasn’t completely useless. Only about 90 percent. She’s right. Getting busted for infidelity won’t humiliate Andrew like an abuse allegation. He might even find it flattering, so in the event I did decide to file for divorce over it, I’d be less likely to rile him up.

It’s also possible that I’m overreacting and blowing this all out of proportion. It’s true what she said about the hospital. They would have fired him if he’d made someone feel unsafe, and Jason didn’t seem to know of anything troubling at work.

I have to see Ben. Talk it through with him. See if he’s putting these ideas in my head just to get me to leave Andrew, or if I’m a battered wife waiting to happen, making excuses for my violent husband.

In denial.

With no way out.

EIGHTEEN

MONICA

“Monica!” Walt Baxter calls out to me as my attempt to keep a low profile fails miserably. I’ve managed to avoid him today, but my luck has run out. This is why I like working from home. I don’t love workplace interactions on a good day, but the week after my husband’s name was splashed all over the news media is a particularly bad day to work at a major medical center. People eat up this kind of story, and everyone wants the inside scoop. I turn on my heel and wait for my temporary boss to catch up to me. I don’t want this distraction.

With a sympathetic head tilt, Walt says, “I wanted to see how you’re doing. And Andrew. Is there anything you need?”

“No, Walt. We’re fine. Andrew is fine. But thanks.”

Walt shakes his head from side to side. “Well, just so you know, in my book, the man is a hero. I heard Jason Whittaker on the news. He seemed very grateful. And he should be. From what I heard, Whittaker would be dead if it weren’t for your husband.”

This is good news. The fact that Andrew pummeled someone to a pulp isn’t part of the narrative. So far, nothing has been said about that by the news media, but I wasn’t so sure about the grapevine. Our attorney told us that the hospital plans to settle with the angry dad, Lenny Millstein, regarding Andrew’s reaction, so there’s no civil suit to worry about, and there will likely be some strings attached, like a non-disclosure agreement. Everyone else has been told to keep their mouths shut.

“That seems to be the general consensus.”

“He’s back at work today?” Walt asks.

“Yes. As I said, Andrew is fine. No permanent damage.”

“You always worry about surgeons. Those hands. Priceless, really. I’m happy he got out unscathed.” There’s a curious look on Walt’s face, which tells me he may have heard some rumors.

Deny everything.

“Andrew was lucky,” I say. “They all were. Now, I better get to work, or my boss will get on my case.”

Walt chuckles, and we part company.

But as I turn around to leave, Walt calls out to me, “Monica. Do you think you could work a little overtime tonight? Just until six or so.”

“Sorry, I can’t. Not tonight. After what happened with Andrew, I want to be there for the kids. Maybe next week.”

“That’s totally understandable.”

Good.

Because I have a coffee date at four today.

And it’s not with my kids.

My eyes dart around the café as I wonder whether he’s stood me up. Ben gave me very specific instructions. At first, I thought he was playing a little game with me.

Sit in the rear of the coffee shop.

Face the front door.

It seemed odd, though, so I asked him why all the directives. He told me that his ex-girlfriend had been semi-stalking him. Showing up places, trying to run into him. She’s not taking the breakup well, he claimed, and he didn’t want her to cause a scene if she sees the two of us together, after what I’ve been through, with my family under a microscope.

That seemed thoughtful of him, so here I sit.

At the rear of the coffee shop, facing the front door.

But I don’t see Ben. Or anyone who looks like they could be Ben.

Because, you see, we’ve never actually met—in person.

Not once.

Not yet.

I kept telling him I wasn’t ready.

He’s been patient, up until recently.

I pull up the photos we’ve exchanged, realizing that I could have been catfished. But I didn’t meet him on a dating app. We met in a support group. What would be the point of catfishing someone in a support group? I doubt that’s the case. And why would he be pressing me to meet up if he were catfishing me?

But there are no text messages from him. He lives in the East Bay, or so he said. In Fremont. So I pull up my traffic app to see if there’s an accident between Fremont and Sunnyvale, where I am waiting for him to show. I didn’t want to meet too close to my home, and this coffee shop is near the hospital. I told Ben that I would not have much time. I need to pick up Noah by 5:30, when he finishes robotics.

It doesn’t look like there’s a major accident.

Maybe he’s …

“Hi,” an unfamiliar voice says as someone slips into the seat across from me.

Looking up from the app on my phone, I see a man wearing a tattered navy windbreaker with sleeves that are a little too long. They cover his arms and the tops of his hands. His hair has a stringy look, as if it needs a washing. The sheen on his forehead could be sweat. Is he sick? Homeless? He looks desperate, and a prickle of fear ripples through me.

What does he want from me?

“I… I’m waiting for someone,” I say, leaning back to put more distance between us. It feels like he might reach over and grab me. Take me hostage, like that crazed dad in the hospital.

Is this him?

Is this the dad?

Then a hesitant smile spreads across the man’s face, making him look even more deranged. “Yes, Monica. You’re waiting for me. I’m Ben,” he says. “I’ve been waiting so long for this. And now we can finally be together.”

NINETEEN

ANDREW

It’s a little late to go out for a run, but I need one today. I’ve been slacking off since the incident at the hospital, and it’s affecting my mental state. Normally, I run every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but I missed my Wednesday run.

After what happened Tuesday night with Monica, I should probably get home early. It’s Friday, and I haven’t seen the kids much this week. But she’s still giving me the silent treatment, so screw it. It’s going to be a long, tense weekend, and I need to unwind. This week has been so strange, scrubbing in like an intern, waiting in the wings. I did get to throw in my two cents a few times, but it felt weird.

My right hand is swollen, not broken. It’s been a week since the incident. I should be fine by Monday, but it still feels off. Ominous. It reminds me of our time in the Bay Area as residents. Like the universe is trying to tell me that we should have never moved back here. We were doing well in New Jersey. I should have protested more when Monica wanted to move. She was so much more agreeable when we were away from this place.

It’s dusk, soon to be dark. The hospital sits on a main road. The narrow sidewalk is filled with cracks and gaps. It’s too risky to run on the sidewalk with lighting this dim, so I have to move onto the narrow shoulder, which is not very safe. But I don’t need to be on this road for very long before I can turn off to a more secluded back road. Trying not to zone out, I’m mindful of my foot placement, but I have to go slow, and it’s not what I want right now.

When I reach the turnoff to the back road, I speed up. Cars glide by every once in a while, but there’s a wide shoulder, and the traffic is light. As I get in the groove, my mind drifts. From my idiotic attempt to meet up with Charlene, to the hospital incident, to my career which is hanging by a thread, to my broken marriage which I fear might be shattered beyond repair.

Back when we were residents, Monica wanted to get away from California. She’d lived her whole life here, she said. Needed a change. Back when we were residents, I was crazy about her, and she was crazy about me. I cheated on her when we first started dating, though. Not because I wanted other women. Because what I felt for her freaked me out. With my upbringing, I never let myself get close to anyone. But she was different, and it threw me.

Then there was her family. I didn’t know all the details about her family money when we first met, but one meeting with Kathleen told me I wasn’t good enough for Monica in her eyes. Monica’s father was harder to read. Quiet, but not in a way that made him seem standoffish. Stoic, and he didn’t seem the type to judge. That’s when I cheated, after the first time I met Monica’s family, with another intern. It was meaningless.

I suppose a shrink would tell me it was self-sabotage. That I didn’t think I deserved Monica. But that’s not it. I just didn’t want the headache of joining up with a family like hers, especially after I found out that we wouldn’t even have access to the money until Kathleen croaked. It’s all from Kathleen’s side of the family, and Monica’s dad was as powerless as I am. But eventually, I gave in. As I said, I was genuinely taken with her.

When her father was killed, it shook the family to its core, and as I’m reflecting back on where things went south with the marriage, I realize that her father’s death changed Monica. It hardened her. It hardened us. It’s when she started to be less tolerant. It’s when I started to lose my temper more. It only got worse when we moved back here, and that was a huge mistake.

This is what I love about running. It gives me clarity. A week ago, I thought maybe Monica and I could make our way back to each other, but after what happened the other night, I’m not sure.

That lunatic Charlene. What does she want from me? She didn’t ask for money. She didn’t want to sleep with me, so what’s her endgame? Would that douchebag Neil Thompson stoop that low, just to get a promotion? Did he hire Charlene to honeytrap me? If so, why hasn’t he sent the photos to my boss? Why go after the home front? Clearly, I’m missing something.

After I’ve gone about two miles, I turn around and head back toward the hospital. I’m more than halfway back when the sound of a car driving a little faster than the flow commands my attention, coming from the main road.

Relax, I tell myself. Everyone speeds in California. I drive eighty on the highway and cars zoom past me. Maybe some kids are racing, trying to get their kicks. That happened two years ago when a pair of local teens from a pricey prep school crashed into a tree. I saved the driver, but we could not save the passenger. These are the kind of roads they choose.

Backstreets.

Residential areas.

Maybe I should⁠—

My stomach lurches as a pair of headlights race in my direction.

They are way too bright, causing me to squint.

A moment too late, I realize the car has crossed the center line.

Hurling myself toward the sidewalk, I can see it’s futile.

I’m going to die.

FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER

TWENTY

CHARLOTTE

Burying my head under the covers, I fight to drown out the noise. It’s a bad day. I have just under five hundred of them left until I finish college and get out of this loony bin.

Crashing sounds shake the walls. I wonder why the neighbors don’t call the police. Mom makes shrieking sounds that remind me of monkeys at the zoo. I wish my brother was here, but he’s older than me. He moved out as soon as he turned eighteen, leaving me alone with my freak show parents. I wish I had the money to go away to college, but I don’t.

We are not poor, my parents tell me. But I feel poor. That’s why I have to live at home with them and attend San Jose State, my local CSU. That’s why I’ve missed out on the freshman experience and frat parties and random hook-ups, everything that makes college fun and makes classes tolerable. That’s why, even though I have good grades, even if I get into med school, I probably won’t be able to go, unless I want to be buried in hundreds of thousands of dollars of student loan debt by the time I finish.

Dad tells Mom to calm down, like that’s going to do anything. I have an exam tomorrow, but it’s hard to study with all the noise. Should I do something? The last time I tried to intervene, I got punched in the face. I’m not itching to have that happen again. My earbuds are in, playing soothing meditation music, but it’s not enough to drown them out.

The door bangs shut, and then there’s silence. This seems worse to me. Mom’s not calling out after him. Silence means that maybe it’s worse than usual.

Letting out a long sigh, I head downstairs.

Mom is lying in a pool of blood.

I pull out my phone and call 9-1-1.

Then I go upstairs and get my books.

Science classes are easy for me. I like science. It’s concrete and predictable. I’m good at those kinds of classes. But I have my upper division general ed to take, and right now, I’m studying for a literature exam.

The professor is the worst. She tells us to analyze a piece of writing from a hundred years ago and everything we say is wrong. What is the symbolism of this or that? Why did the author do this or that? Like she knows what the author was thinking. Nobody knows. It’s all conjecture. But if we don’t write exactly what she thinks the author thought, our grades suffer. But then she never tells us what she thinks the author thought, so there’s no winning with the woman. On my midterm comments, she told me to dig deeper.

I’ll dig deeper.

When I’m digging your grave.

I should have dropped the class, but I want to graduate and get on with my life. So here I sit. Outside the ER, waiting for them to patch up my mother, reading a bunch of literary analyses of Wuthering Heights. It’s a cool story, really. I wish we could just read it and enjoy it and write about why we liked it or didn’t like it instead of wasting time trying to figure out what the moors symbolize. Maybe they symbolize nothing. Maybe that’s just where she set the book.

“Hi,” says a woman who can’t be much older than me. “Is Rebecca Sanderson your mom?” She’s pretty, with long, dark curls drawn back into a low ponytail. Tendrils frame her face, which is pale, but not in a bad way. She could be time warped from my novel.

“Yes,” I say. “She’s my mother. How is she?”

“She’ll be fine,” the woman says. “I’m Dr. Warner.”

“Are you an ER doctor?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I’m a radiologist. I interpret x-rays and other scans.”

Rolling my eyes, I tell her that I know what a radiologist is. She’s pissing me off already. I hate being talked down to, and I especially hate it when someone new to adulthood treats me like a five-year-old.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t. Are you a high school student?” she asks.

“College. And I have a final tomorrow, and I’m kind of busy.”

She leans in like a shrink, trying to pry something out of me that isn’t there. “Can you tell me what happened to your mother?”

“Why? Is she unconscious again?”

“No,” she says.

“Then ask her what happened. I was in my room. I found her on the floor.” I go back to my computer screen, hoping she’ll take the hint.

But she doesn’t. “Why was she on the floor?”

“I just told you. I don’t know. I came down and found her like that. I guess she fell.”

“How? I mean, do you know how she fell?”

“Look. My mother is clumsy. And a little off sometimes. Just, I have to study.”

The doctor woman stands, like she’s finally going to leave me alone. But then she says, “I want to call your dad, but I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. Does he live with you?”

“I thought your job was to analyze films, and I don’t see how that’s any of your business. But yes, my dad lives with us.”

Her eyes widen in a way that tells me she’s slightly amused. This irritates me even more. “Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if we call him? There’s not some reason to not call him? Because if there is, you can tell me. We can protect you, and your mother.”

Grabbing my book and shoving it into my backpack, I spring up and tell her, “I said, I have to study. I don’t need protecting, and neither does my mother. Call my dad, and leave me alone.”

TWENTY-ONE

MONICA

“Hey, sexy.” Andrew peeks into the reading room, and I try to ignore him. He can get away with antics like this at work, but I can’t. I’m a first-year medical intern at Redwood City Medical Center. A PGY-1. The lowest of the low. He’s a senior surgical resident. A superstar, and one year away from completion. He’s already applying to cardiothoracic fellowships.

Waving my hand back at him while still staring at my screen, I say, “Go away, you.”

But my delivery is weak and ineffective. Soon, we are full-on making out, until my chief resident walks in. I jump back from my new boyfriend.

“Go. Away. Now!” My eyes are wide and serious, but a hint of a smile spreads across my face. I’m truly conflicted. And hopelessly in love.

Flashing me a cheeky grin, Andrew departs.

Susan Barrett rolls her eyes. “Interns. You’re like dogs in heat,” she says.

Shrugging, I tell her, “It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, it will,” she says. “I just hope he doesn’t gut you like a fish, Monica. I thought you were smarter than that. You know his reputation.”

Susan Barrett is jaded. The scoop is, she was burned by an attending her first year as a resident, so I ignore her warning, and we move on.

“What do you see?” she says.

I summarize the case for Dr. Barrett.

A woman came into the ER with a cracked elbow and a blow to the head that knocked her unconscious. She claimed that she fell off a ladder while trying to change a lightbulb.

“Well, she said she fell off a ladder, but I don’t think that’s what happened.”

Barrett asks me, “How can you be sure?”

Shrugging, I say, “I can’t be sure.”

“Right. You can’t. What makes you doubt her story?”

I go on to explain to my chief resident, technically my mentor but in practice more like a bad boss, that the injuries don’t quite match up with a fall. They seem like the type of injuries that occur after an altercation, not a fall. Maybe someone pushed her down, causing the head trauma.

Her brow furrows as she examines the films. “It could go either way. A fall can mimic an altercation. Unless there’s something else, don’t worry about it. The ER team is trained to spot abuse. That’s what you’re thinking, right?”

“Yes, it crossed my mind.”

“That’s typical of interns. Savior mentality. We’re not social workers, Monica. Read the films, but don’t read into them.”

Nodding, I tell her I’ll do as she says.

But I’m not letting it go. I didn’t tell her about my conversation with the woman’s daughter. I’d get in a lot of trouble for overstepping. I’m not even a real radiologist, but I want to be. It’s not my place to talk to a patient’s loved ones, and I don’t want a mark on my record, so I’ll have to think of another way to play this.

“Hey,” Andrew says. “Did you get detention?”

I’m in the cafeteria, taking a break. It’s well past dinnertime, and I haven’t eaten in hours. I’m chowing down a veggie wrap, and tahini sauce squirts out and onto my cheek as I attempt to swallow my mouthful of food and answer him.

Andrew wipes it away. “You’re adorable, even when you’re a mess.”

We sneak in a tasteful kiss on the lips, no longer trying to hide our relationship, but aware of the fact that we should not flaunt it.

Rolling my eyes, I say, “No detention. Just a warning.”

“About …”

“About you, and how you might gut me like a fish.”

“You know she was burned by⁠—”

Holding up a hand, trying to converse and chew at the same time, I tell him, “Yeah. Yeah. I know all about it. Don’t worry. I’m a special fish.”

“That you are. And by the way, I’d never gut anyone. I’d just throw them back in the sea and let them swim away.”

“That’s very romantic.”

“Not you, Monica. I’m not throwing you back. I’m meeting your parents. I’m all in, I told you.”

I don’t want to think about Andrew meeting my parents.

I’ve got more pressing issues.

“Listen, Andrew. I need your help.”

I tell him about the woman in the ER and the conversation I had with the woman’s daughter. Andrew is doing a trauma surgery rotation, and he’s in great with the ER attending doctor.

“I’m telling you,” I say. “Something is fishy.”

Andrew smirks. “Fishy? Really?”

I bat him on the arm. “Stop! I’m being serious.”

“Okay. And your chief resident told you to drop it. Maybe you should listen to her. It doesn’t sound like the daughter said anything incriminating. Why would she tell you to call the dad if he did this to her mother?”

“I looked into her files, Andrew. The woman’s been in here before with other injuries. Suspicious ones. Please. Just see if you can put the bug in Jackson’s ear. It wouldn’t hurt to take an extra step, just in case. Would it? Think about your own family. You know firsthand that sometimes women can’t bring themselves to…” I offer him a shrug.

But Andrew’s look has hardened, and I’m struggling to understand why. His lips press together. Then he pounds his fist on the table and says, “Why would you throw that in my face right now?”

Eyes wide, I lean into the back of my chair, putting some distance between the two of us. “Throw what in your face? I’m not… what did I do? Why are you so upset?”

He breathes in and lets it out, momentarily closing his eyes. After he opens them, he says, “I’ll talk to Jackson, but don’t bring up my childhood again. I never should have told you about it. I’ve moved on, and I’ll expect the same from you going forward.”

With that, he gets up to leave.

My stomach roils, and I get a pang of trepidation, the first one that actually came from something he did, not from the rumor mill. He’s never looked at me like that before.

After a few minutes, I return to my veggie wrap, but not with the same amount of gusto. My appetite has dampened, but still, I need to eat. There’s no telling when I’ll get another opportunity. As I turn to my left, I see the daughter from the ER waiting room looking up from her books, staring at me with piercing eyes, as if she can read my mind.

Why is she looking at me like that?

What am I missing?

TWENTY-TWO

CHARLOTTE

Something must be wrong.

Why hasn’t someone contacted me?

Where is my dad?

I’ve been sitting here in the cafeteria for almost two hours, but I lost track of time. It crosses my mind that the injuries may have been worse than I thought, so I pack up my stuff and head back to the ER. I’d rather be hanging out in the ER waiting room than studying for a lit exam in the cafeteria, but it’s too distracting.

I’ve wanted to be a surgeon since my first visit to a hospital. After that, I started watching every medical drama I could find on TV. I realized then that I’m different. My brother would look away during the surgery scenes or the terrible, gruesome ones with impaled accident victims and twisted limbs.

Not me. I leaned in, finding it all very fascinating. And I decided that I wanted to be a surgeon, maybe even a trauma surgeon, not only because the work interests me, but because the gore doesn’t bother me like it bothers most people. The work excites me. I’m not a sicko, though. It doesn’t delight me. It makes me curious. I see a problem to solve. Not everyone can remain calm and objective in a situation like that, my guidance counselor told me.

I’d be good as an EMT or a paramedic, she said, or as part of a search and rescue team. But surgeons make a lot more money, and I don’t want to be poor. Because we are poor, even if my parents say we’re not. We rent a townhouse that is in terrible shape, and my dad said to my mom that we’re one or two paychecks away from homelessness. I know that med school is a long shot. Even if I get accepted, I would need to find a way to pay for it. I bet that nosy radiologist comes from money. She has that kind of demeanor.

When I get to the ER, the first thing I notice is a police officer, standing toward the side of the front desk. It’s more crowded now, so maybe there was a big pileup on the highway or something. But then my mind flashes to the radiologist and her hot doctor boyfriend who seemed to have a little temper tantrum toward the end of their interlude.

I wonder what she said to make him react that way. The way she looked at me, I have a sinking feeling they were talking about me and my mother, at least for part of it. I saw him earlier, when I brought my mother into the ER.

What has she done?

Trying not to panic, because this could have nothing to do with my family, I stroll to the front desk and ask how my mother is doing. I’m told to wait, that the doctor will be out to see me soon. I take a seat, letting my shoulders sink with relief, but then she calls the officer over. The lady points to me, and the officer heads in my direction.

The officer is around my mom’s age, with short dark hair and a serious expression on her face. “I’m Officer Marston. Are you Charlotte Sanderson?”

“Yes,” I say.

“And your mother is Rebecca Sanderson?”

“Yes. Is she okay?”

“She will be,” the officer says. “But I have a few questions about what happened tonight.”

“I don’t know what happened,” I say. “I was in my room.”

“Yes. So you told the doctors. But did you hear anything? Before you came down from your room?”

“Where’s my dad?” I ask. “I thought they were calling him.”

She doesn’t answer me. “Was your dad there when this happened?”

“I told you, I don’t know. I was in my room. Studying. I have a final tomorrow.”

“Charlotte. I know it’s natural to want to protect your father. But if there’s something you’re not telling us, you could get in a lot of trouble. This is a police investigation now, and lying to the police is a crime.”

My stomach sinks.

Investigation?

That’s the last thing we need right now.

“I want an attorney. I don’t want to speak to you without an attorney. Get me an attorney, because I can’t afford one.”

“You’re a witness, not a suspect. We don’t do that for witnesses.” She offers me a condescending smile, like she finds it cute, and my blood boils.

Out of options, I tell her, “Look. It’s not what you think. My dad was there. Yes. But my mother. She gets… agitated.”

“Agitated how?”

“She’s got issues.”

“What kind of issues?”

“Mental health issues.”

“Is she on medication?”

“I don’t think so, but she’s supposed to be.”

“That has to be hard for you and your dad.”

Shrugging, I tell her, “We manage.”

“It’s totally understandable that a person could be pushed to the limit, in that kind of situation. If that’s what happened. If your dad was pushed to the limit, you need to tell us the truth.”

“I told you. I don’t know what happened,” I say. “That’s the truth.”

The officer nods. “Well then, what you’re telling me is you can’t say for sure that your father didn’t hurl your mother down to the floor and cause her injuries.”

My pulse pounds as I realize what just happened. She’s boxed me into a corner, to a place that is going to fry my father. “Is that what she told you? Is that why you came? Did she tell someone to call the police?”

Officer Marston shakes her head. “The attending ER doctor. The one in charge of the ER? He called us in. It’s what they are required to do, if the injuries look suspicious. And once they did, your mother told us the truth about what happened.”

It’s possible my mother is telling the truth. But if she is, it’s not that simple. I’ve seen things spiral out of control, and in the heat of the moment…

“Where’s my dad?” I ask. “What did he say happened?”

She lets out a long sigh and places a hand on my shoulder. “Your dad is down at the police station. Your mother’s decided to press charges. I’m afraid he’s been arrested.”

Seething inside, I struggle to keep my cool. It wasn’t the attending ER doctor’s idea to call the cops. I know exactly whose idea it was, though. And I won’t forget it.

TWENTY-THREE

MONICA

She has daggers in her steel blue eyes, aimed at me.

Sort of like Andrew, and the way he looked at me in the cafeteria when I brought up his childhood. Families are complicated, and that’s an understatement. The desire to love our parents. To be loved by them. It’s strong. Powerful. There’s so much we are willing to overlook.

I know this firsthand. I’ve overlooked many of my mother’s transgressions. Still, I come back for more. Over and over and over. Trying to get what I need from her. And refusing to face the fact that she doesn’t have it in her. Thankfully, I have my dad.

Not Andrew, though. Both of his parents were incapable of giving him what he needed, so much so that he can’t even talk about it. My heart aches for him. I want to help him heal, but how can I do that if he won’t let me in?

I’m sure it’s the same for this young woman. She wants to keep what’s happening in her home a secret. The shame and the humiliation are often too much to bear. It’s easier to hide it under the rug, like Andrew does. Keep it in the family. For a short moment, I consider the fact that I’ve done more harm than good.

But then I think back on Rebecca Sanderson’s injuries, and I know that I’ve done the right thing. My duty is to the patient, and she needed to be protected. Someday, her daughter will understand. Someday, she might even thank me.

I offer her a sympathetic look, but she stays stone cold.

Then she and her discharged mother are escorted out of the ER waiting room by the police officer.

“Monica.” Susan Barrett stands in front of me, hands on hips, using a tone that tells me she’s not pleased. I know exactly why, too. “Do you have anything you want to share with me?”

“About?”

“Don’t play games with me, Monica. I know you put the bug into Dr. Decker’s ear about Rebecca Sanderson and got him to talk to his attending.”

My pulse ticks up a notch as I try to determine if I should deny it or spin it in a way that doesn’t make me look that bad. But then I think about Andrew and his reaction today. How his sweeping the abuse he endured under the rug has damaged him.

“I’m not sorry for what I did,” I say. “The woman pressed charges, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Monica. She sure did. Proud of yourself, aren’t you? Feels good, to be the savior?”

“I didn’t do it for that reason. It’s not what you think.”

Barrett shakes her head, and I see her nostrils flare. Somehow, I feel like there’s more to this than the fact that I one-upped her. “There’s a bigger picture. One that you’re not privy to, as an intern. That’s what you are. An intern. Do you get the meaning of that word? You are a trainee, here to learn. And you went against the orders of me, your chief resident. I’ll have to talk to the chief about this.”

She means the Chief of Internal Medicine. She’s going to rat me out. What a witch. I hope I never get so jaded that I don’t care about a battered woman.

“I’m prepared to face the consequences of my actions,” I say. “But I stand by them.”

“Oh, you stand by your actions, do you? Did you know that Rebecca Sanderson is unstable? That she’s been in and out of mental wards? That you’ve just sent her daughter home to live with an unmedicated mental patient while her father sits in prison?”

“But why didn’t Jackson⁠—”

“Do not call an attending physician by his first name. Dr. Bradford is new to this medical center, and the ER is too busy to look into past histories of patients. He made the call, but it wasn’t his idea. The consequences are on you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and her look softens, but not for long. “But why didn’t you tell me about her history when we were reading her films?”

Barrett’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Are you seriously questioning my judgment right now? Listen, Monica. It’s not my job to tell you anything but what to do and when and how to do it. And your job is to listen to me.”

“Got it, Dr. Barrett,” I say.

“But do you? Really? People like you with your family connections and your generational wealth, you think you own the world. Like we all march to your beat. But I don’t care who your mother is. You’re just a lowly intern to me, and if you can’t get that through your pretty little head, you need to find another profession, before you get someone killed.”

Rolling my eyes, after she’s turned her back on me, I watch Dr. Barrett storm off to the Chief of Internal Medicine’s office to seal my fate.

I’m not sorry about what I did. She’s reading into those films even more than I am. Why didn’t they put the mother in a psych hold years ago, if she was that bad off? If the family can’t deal with her, we need to step in and take control. There’s nothing in her record about that. The mother was our patient, and we have a duty to the patient. The police can sort out who is telling the truth about the altercation.

One thing is for sure, though. If I’m going to make a name for myself in the medical profession, I need to get out of the Bay Area. Somewhere where the shadow of my family and its reputation cannot cast itself over me and all of my accomplishments.

Somewhere I can reinvent myself.

Somewhere far from here, and Andrew is my ticket.

TWENTY-FOUR

MONICA

The dinner last week went worse than I even imagined it would. It’s clear that my mother does not approve of Andrew, and that is just too damn bad. Because I’ve decided that Andrew is the perfect man for me. My mother lords the family trust over me, brandishing it like a weapon, a gun barrel pressed against my temple, designed to get me to fall into line.

She paid for medical school, which I’m starting to regret, but with no debt, a promising career as a radiologist ahead of me, and Andrew poised to become a world-class cardiothoracic surgeon, we will live well enough on two salaries.

Andrew and I will shine and stand on our own two feet with our two beautiful children by our sides, which we will have sooner rather than later, because I don’t want to be an old mom.

I’ve got it all planned out, but I need to keep an eye on that temper of his. One thing I won’t stand for is someone who is short with my kids. I realize I don’t even have kids yet, but I’m methodical. A planner. I never leave anything to chance.

“Andrew,” my mother said, when we met in the lobby of a fine dining establishment in Burlingame, on the formal side for the Bay Area.

It was only one word, but it spoke volumes.

He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, just a long-sleeved shirt with no tie, under a brown cashmere sweater that was not a good color on him. Her eyes flicked up and down, taking in the sight of him. After an awkward pause, she stated the obvious: “I’m Kathleen.”

Which really meant she was too perplexed by his lack of decorum to say anything more formidable. Andrew went in for a hug, only to be poked in the solar plexus by her outstretched hand. I felt embarrassed for him, even though I’d warned him not to dress too casually, and that she was a stickler for formality.

Rather than trying to impress my mother at dinner—another major blunder—Andrew attempted to converse with my father, but Dad is just as much a victim of my mother’s need for control as the rest of us. She kept answering for my father, and I felt like telling my dad to grow a pair. Unlike Andrew, my dad doesn’t have an angry bone in his body. That’s probably why my mother picked him.

But today, I realize it wasn’t just the lack of a suit jacket and Andrew’s pedestrian manner that irked her. Mother has been trying to get hold of me since our dinner, but I’ve been dodging her calls, so she showed up at my workplace just now, claiming she had a meeting with a board member, which could be true, but still. My mother has never cornered me at work before.

She hands me a photo with a smug look on her face. “If you marry him,” she says, “get an ironclad prenup with an infidelity clause, or I’ll cut you off for good. It’s bad enough you’re marrying someone below your station. That is, unless this changes your mind.”

“How did you…?”

“You seem serious about him. I have to protect your interests. I had him followed. This was two days ago.”

As much as I don’t like to listen to my mother, this time, I have to admit, she is right. I bet she thought that it would make me dump him, but it’s not what I’m feeling right now. Much to my surprise, as I stare down at a photo of Andrew kissing another woman, I feel a prickle of something I’ve never felt before.

Jealousy.

I’m a competitor, though, so I stuff down the hurt and the anger and decide I want to win, and the mousy surgical intern from his residency cohort is no match for me. Besides, having something to lord over him isn’t the worst thing in the world. He is her supervisor. He could get in a lot of trouble for this, even if it was only a kiss.

They are outside a sports bar in Palo Alto, where Andrew takes his cohort from time to time to blow off steam. He’s kissing her, up against a car. This doesn’t mean they slept together. But it doesn’t mean they didn’t.

But how do I get past it?

I tell myself we aren’t married. We aren’t even engaged. We’ve never even had a conversation about exclusivity, although at this point, I would think it would be implied. I decide that I don’t need to make a decision just yet about what to do. I need more time to process this.

In the meantime, I’ll pull back and see what happens. Maybe he’ll confess. That would be a point in his favor.

So, when I see him in the hallway, I don’t stop.

Rather, I just wave and stream by, tell him I’m busy.

Relishing the look on his face, his eyebrows raised up like a pair of umbrellas, I walk away, leaving him speechless.

And the games begin.

TWENTY-FIVE

CHARLOTTE

A month ago, I thought my life was bad, but I had no idea what bad was.

A month ago, I had a plan. A plan that in just under five hundred days, I’d graduate college and move on with my life. Maybe even get into med school. Apply for scholarships. Transcend the shitty hand I’d been dealt.

A month ago, I had no inkling that I’d be on a bus. A stinky, clanky old bus with tattered seats and a snot-nosed toddler screaming bloody murder in back of me and a bunch of losers with vacant looks on their faces, staring out their windows, their reflections glaring back at them.

Me included.

A bus that’s making me sick to my stomach, headed to a trailer park outside Jacksonville, Florida, with a suitcase and three hundred dollars to my name. It’s peak vacation season, so airline prices were high. And by the time I added on airport transportation and baggage fees, it wasn’t doable, even for a stupid one-way ticket. If this bus trip isn’t rock bottom, I don’t want to find out what is.

Dad wasn’t in jail for very long. Just a night. I do understand how the criminal justice system works, even though I blurted out that comment about wanting a lawyer when the cop grilled me. When I’m nervous, I can’t think straight. I know the difference between a suspect and a witness, and I know the difference between jail and prison.

Dad got out of jail, and thanks to the cashless bail movement, it didn’t cost us anything. But bail serves a purpose. It’s a way of making sure the defendant shows up for trial. Dad didn’t want to go to prison, and even though he probably wouldn’t have gotten prison time because they were working on a plea deal, he split on us, leaving me alone with my mother.

I’m sure he was fed up. Dad tried to get my mom committed a few times, but it’s not that easy to do, he told me. And I guess he figured a father with a record was worse than no father at all. Or else he just saw an out and took it.

The whole incident made my mother even harder to be around, at least in the beginning. She felt like it proved her right, and that it was all Dad’s fault. That her mental health issues and the problems they caused our family weren’t on her. I never did find out the truth, if my father pushed her down or if she made that up. I didn’t ask my dad, because it didn’t really matter to me. I loved him anyway.

Like me, he’d been through enough to push anyone over the edge. If he did it, he didn’t mean to. He left me a note, telling me he loved me. Telling me to go live with my brother, and that someday, he’d find me again, which I’m sure was bullshit, but at least he cared enough about me to lie and give me hope.

Our finances were in worse shape than I thought. We were already behind in rent payments, and with my father and his income gone, we got an eviction notice. I told my mother we had to leave our place. Find somewhere else to live. But I knew it was useless, especially in the Bay Area.

We’d been renting the same place for over a decade. We had an unspoken agreement with the landlord. We never complained about the broken air conditioner or the fridge that froze food on the top shelf and spoiled it on the bottom one, and they didn’t hike up our rents to market level. There’s no way we would have been able to stay, even in the cheaper towns, further out.

Mom said she’d get a job, and that lasted two weeks. I had a part-time job at Walmart, but that wasn’t going to cut it. I am twenty years old, and I already have negative net worth, with the student loans I’ve taken out and the little bit of credit card debt I’ve taken on.

I can’t finish college.

Not now.

And it’s all her fault.

“Char,” my brother says. “What happened to your face?”

Right. I almost forgot. My mother got into it with me when I tried to get her to go take a shower. After her initial period of gloating, she was lost without my dad. Regretting what she’d done, after he split on us.

Even though their relationship was toxic, it was familiar. She blamed me for making him leave, which made no sense at all. My mother always needed someone to blame. She even dropped the charges and told the cops she’d been mistaken, so my father was no longer a fugitive. For a week or so after she did that, I held out hope that he’d come back. Then I learned that hope is unproductive. Dangerously foolish.

“My nose is broken, and it made my eyes black and blue. It’ll fade. Don’t worry.” Feeling around the bridge, I notice the tape has peeled back. It’s in need of replacing, due to the humid, stinky bus air that I’ve been breathing for days.

“A parting gift from Mom?” he asks.

I nod.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as before,” I tell him.

He takes my suitcase and we head to his aging Ford Focus. When I get in the passenger seat, I pull down the visor, turning my head from side to side.

I’ve never liked my nose. Thought it was too big for my face. At the ER, they said my insurance would pay for me to fix it, but I didn’t have time to look into it before I left. Maybe that could be one good thing my mother did for me, before she swallowed a bottle of pills and ended her life.

I picture my new nose, looking at my reflection, and what I’d look like. And I think I’d look great. Maybe my mother has left me something after all. A nice, new nose that fits my face, like that rich girl radiologist. Maybe then I’ll rise from the ashes and transcend this shit show of a life and take that hot doctor away from her, so she can see how it feels to lose everything.

TWENTY-SIX

CHARLOTTE

Turns out, being flat broke without a penny to your name is better than being a member of the “working poor,” which I now realize is a thing. Because I have no job and no money, I can get free health insurance. Job training. SNAP benefits for food. I’m officially a member of the welfare state, and I hate it.

I also have access to career and educational counseling, and I’m meeting with a woman named Beverly who looks to be about sixty, but I’m not great at judging the age of older women. She has silver gray hair that looks silky, like she still takes care of it. The kind of woman who was pretty, in her day. She’s somewhere between fifty and seventy, I’m pretty sure about that. Let’s go with sixty, because she says she’s a semi-retired college counselor and she volunteers at this non-profit that my social worker referred me to.

We meet in a small conference room with a round café-type table and two chairs, and outside the glass walls, people work in cubicles doing who knows what. It looks like they are all staring at their computer screens, bored out of their minds. I could never tolerate a desk job.

I expect Beverly to start in about how unfortunate my situation is, like the social worker who sent me here. Get all touchy feely about my lot in life and how I got a raw deal. But that’s not what happens.

The first words out of her mouth are, “Why are you here, Charlotte? What do you want?”

Sitting up a little straighter, I say, “What do I want?”

“Yes. What do you want? ”

Nobody has ever asked me that before, and I’m speechless for a few minutes. “I want to be a doctor,” I say. Except I’m not sure if that’s true anymore, but it’s all I can think of, since I’ve been telling myself that for as long as I can remember.

“A doctor. That’s not very realistic, for someone in your situation. Why do you want to be a doctor?”

I can’t very well tell her it’s because I think it would be fun to cut people up and then stitch them back together again, so I say, “I want to make good money and have a respectable career. I don’t want to worry about money. I don’t want to live like I did growing up.”

Beverly nods, but it’s not a nod of agreement. More like a Freudian nod, as if she’s analyzing me. After a long pause, she says, “Wrong answer, Charlotte. The only good answer to my question is to save lives. Since the odds of someone with your background becoming a doctor are somewhere in the neighborhood of a million to one, and since your motivation is ill informed, I’d let the doctor idea go and focus on a new goal, one which is more attainable. To make good money and transcend your station in life. I can help you map out a plan, but putting it into action is up to you.”

Shrugging, I say, “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

She eyes me, not impressed by my snarky tone. “First off, I need to tell you that I only stick with clients who do the work. I don’t have a savior complex, and I’m not into wasting my time. If I see you’re not motivated and just going through the motions. If you’re not following through on the benchmarks we set, I won’t meet with you anymore. I’m not a trained therapist, and I don’t have a clue as to how to make someone motivated who is not, nor am I interested in learning how to do that. But if you’re driven and you want to succeed, I’m confident I can put you on a path and get you there. Are you willing to do the work, Charlotte?”

I fight to suppress a grin. She’s kind of amusing. Better than the social worker. “I am,” I tell her. “What is the first step?”

“This might be hard to hear, but the first step is to realize that whatever happened to you, there are people who have had it much worse. Stop the blame game. Don’t look back. Look forward. Do the work. Can you do that, Charlotte? Can you let go of the past and do the work?”

This is not the worst advice anyone has ever given me, even if it is a little harsh. Life is harsh, and she does have a point about letting go of the past. I’m not ready to completely release the blame and resentment, though, because revenge is a powerful motivator. But I am willing to give it a try.

So, I’ll do what she says and become successful. At what? We haven’t gotten there yet. And then when I am, maybe she’ll be proven right, and by the time I’m living the life I want for myself, I’ll be free of anger. Living well is the best revenge, they say.

And if it turns out that’s not true for me, I’ll be in a much better position to go after my enemies if I’m living well than if I’m living in abject poverty in a trailer park as a permanent member of the welfare state.

Nodding, I say, “Yes, Beverly. I am willing to do the work. Tell me my next steps. I want to change my life, and I want to do it fast.”

First though, I’ll use my free health insurance to fix my nose, because everyone knows that perfect-looking people have an easier time in life. People like the radiologist who ruined my life, and the hot doctor who helped her.

I realize that since I don’t even know their names, the revenge part might be tricky. So hopefully Beverly is right. I’ll move on with my new life, live well, and leave the past behind.

TWENTY-SEVEN

MONICA

Playing hard to get with Andrew has been a good exercise in restraint. It’s also toughened me up. I’ve always had a bit of a Prince Charming complex, but seeing that photo of Andrew kissing one of his interns snapped me out of it. It’s been a month, and he’s still chasing me. It’s also made me more amenable to going on a date with someone my mother has been hounding me about for the last year and a half. He’s the son of one of her friends and inhabits the same social circle as my mother and her confidants.

I am not interested in Bradley Powell, but I’d like to be. Plus, it’s a good way of testing the waters of who’s out there, forcing me to consider that perhaps my mother has a point. How do I know that Andrew wants me for me? How do I know it’s not the money and the family connections?

Bradley Powell doesn’t need my money. He’s got more than we do. He heads up a venture capital firm that was started by his father, which isn’t exactly a turn-on. I love that Andrew is self-made. It gives him a drive and an energy that’s intoxicating.

Bradley Powell is anything but intoxicating. He greets me at the entrance of a five-star restaurant, wearing a dark gray suit that looks ridiculous in the Bay Area, like he’s just come from a funeral. Everyone our age dresses down here. I’m in a little black dress, which only adds to the macabre aura around us, and spiky heels that are killing me after being on my feet all day. We are escorted to the best table in the house. He pulls out my chair for me and pushes it in, letting his hand land on my shoulder.

I flinch.

There’s nothing particularly off-putting about him, I notice, as he takes his seat opposite me. He is tall, on the thin side but not skinny. His jaw is square and his nose is straight. His eyes are a nice shade of hazel. But Bradley Powell is like a symphony with one instrument playing a little off-key. You can’t put your finger on where the discordance is coming from, but something is a little off. Is the nose a little too big for the face? The eyes a little too close together? Whatever it is, he’s no Andrew, and it’s clear to me after about ten minutes of conversation that this isn’t going to work.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says.

Is this a job interview?

I tell him, briefly, that I’m training to be a radiologist, and I’m currently in my first-year rotation as a medical intern.

“Why radiology?” he asks.

I don’t tell him the real reason. Instead, I explain to him that radiology is an interesting specialty where you need to know about all aspects of medicine: ortho, cardio, internal medicine. This excites me because I get bored easily. This way, I have a need to stay current on all fields and bring that knowledge to my diagnoses.

“I’ve also heard it’s a good specialty for women who want to start a family,” he says. “Not as demanding.”

My nostrils flare at the implication, but I let it go. It’s not worth it. The rest of the conversation goes exactly like a job interview. I ask, he answers. Silence. And on and on it goes. We get through the meal, but I hardly taste my food. I drink less than half a glass of the insanely expensive wine he ordered, so he downs most of it. By the time we get the check, he’s slurring his words ever so slightly.

Bradley offers to walk me to my car. I tell him it’s not necessary, but he insists. I’m not sure he should drive, but it’s not really my place to tell him so. If there’s four glasses in a bottle, he’s had nearly three, and that was over dinner with a lot of rich food. He’s probably fine. We’ve been here a few hours, although it feels like an eternity.

When we get to my Infiniti, I think he’s reaching for the door handle, so I jut to the side. Instead, he spins me around and presses me against the driver’s side door. Then he shoves his tongue in my mouth, and I struggle to push him off. He’s stronger than I would have expected, and he’s making me gag.

I stomp hard on his foot, making sure I get some heel into it.

“Agghh!” he cries out. “What the hell, Monica?”

But he’s still too close for comfort, so I shove him. Hard.

Slipping into my car while he licks his wounds, I call out, “Now get the fuck away from me, Bradley. Or I swear to God, I’ll run you over.”

Bradley Powell turns around and hobbles away from my car with his head hanging low.

I get in my car and start it up.

So much for playing the field.

Later that night, I get a call from Andrew, like I’ve gotten every night for the past month. This time, I answer.

“Hey,” he says. “Can we talk?”

Letting out a sigh, I tell him we can.

“Can I come over?” he says. “I’d like to do this in person.”

Soon, we are sitting on the sofa of my apartment in Menlo Park. It’s an older one-bedroom in a walk-up with communal laundry, and it rents for over three grand a month. I’m lucky, because I have a small payout from my trust that covers some of the rent.

Mother keeps me on a tight leash. Gives me just enough that I’m not an embarrassment to her, but not so much that I don’t get an inkling of what my life would be without it, living like a real medical intern, most of whom are flat broke, with communal laundry being the least of their problems.

“I have to tell you something, but I feel like you already know about it,” he says.

“Is that why you’re telling me?” I ask.

Andrew shrugs. “Honestly? Yeah.”

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “Yeah? Care to explain?”

I’m shocked by his candor—and struck with an overwhelming desire to rip his clothes off. This confuses me.

“Because it meant nothing to me, except to make me realize how much I love you. So why would I want to hurt you by telling you if you didn’t already know, since it was a mistake? You’re the only woman I want to be with, and I’m sorry.”

I could ask him why he did it, although I think I know the answer. I could ask if it went further than a kiss. But I decide that I don’t want to know.

Instead, I say, “We weren’t exclusive. At least, we never said we were.”

“Do you want to be?” he asks.

Shrugging, I tell him, “I guess it’s hard, because you don’t know where you’ll be next year, and I need to be here.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you want to be.”

Still a little wounded from his transgression, I don’t tell him that I’m pretty sure he’s the only man I want touching me for the rest of my life.

“Do you?” I throw back at him.

Andrew gets down on one knee, whips out a ring box from his pocket, and opens it. His puppy dog eyes stare up at me, and his hand actually trembles a little as he holds out the box to me. The great Andrew Decker is nervous, and my heart melts.

“Yes,” he says. “I want to be exclusive, Monica. I want to be exclusive for the rest of our lives.”

It’s a smaller diamond for a woman like me, barely a carat, but it brings tears to my eyes. Andrew makes more than I do as a senior resident, but not much more, and he has a load of medical school debt. This must have set him back. Still reeling from the shock, I’m momentarily speechless.

“So what do you say? Are we doing this? Are we all in? Will you marry me, Monica?”

As a smile spreads across my face, I feel a pang of excitement, mixed with a pinch of trepidation. This is fast, everyone will say, but to hell with them.

“Yes, Andrew,” I say. “I’ll marry you.”

He places the ring on my finger and pulls me in for a kiss. It is tender, immersive, magical. My entire body tingles with anticipation, and soon he takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom to consummate our engagement.

Afterward, when I’m lying on his bare chest listening to his beating heart, I consider what I’m giving up and what I’m gaining. Mother will cut me off, for sure. But the look on her face when she sees this ring on my finger will be priceless.

Plus, if we are cut off from my family money, then Andrew can’t be marrying me for it, so that should put her mind at ease about that, and mine. If I can tolerate communal laundry, I can learn to live without a fifteen-million-dollar trust waiting in the wings, so in some karmic way, my mother’s tactic has backfired on her.

Still, it’s a lot of money to give up, so Andrew better be worth it.

And he sure as hell better not cheat again.

TWENTY-EIGHT

CHARLOTTE

“I need an extra ice water,” my co-worker shouts to me. “Venti!”

Glancing down at my green apron, I roll my eyes. It’s been a month since I met with Beverly for the first time, and I’m putting her plan for me into action.

It started with me getting a job.

As a barista.

“I have an IQ of 145,” I told her.

“Then you should be able to figure out the compound interest rate of student loan debt in your head. How much debt do you have already?”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “About thirty grand.”

“That’s as much as I advise anyone to take, and you don’t even have a bachelor’s degree yet. You can be young and smart, but you can’t be young and wise. That’s where I come in.”

Beverly went on to explain that the company would pay for me to finish my degree online while I was working, and at the same time, I could save money in their 401k program and take advantage of their employee stock program. She went on to give me a lesson in financial literacy, and I was glued to my seat.

“Focus on building your net worth,” she said. “That’s the true ticket to freedom and security.”

I have to admit, all my life, I was great at school but clueless about life. My parents taught me nothing about finances. Mom was a self-proclaimed bohemian with mental health issues who railed about “the establishment.” Dad was a construction worker, but not in the union. When I asked Beverly what I would do for intellectual stimulation in the meantime, she suggested chess. I laughed, but she didn’t.

So here I am, working my plan.

Two years from now, I’ll have a degree in Information Technology. What will I do with that? I haven’t gotten there yet. But at least I’m saving money. I’ve got health insurance. Next month, I’ll start classes. I can’t live with my brother forever.

Dante has mental health issues, like my mother. I wasn’t sure about that when we were kids, but now that I live with him as an adult, I can see he’s a little off. My mother named him after Dante’s Inferno, so I suppose he was destined for a life in hell. Me? Charlotte’s Web. Two of her favorite books. Mom said I reminded her a little of a spider. Maybe there’s some truth to that.

My mother never watched television, and we only got one when I was ten, at my father’s insistence. Claimed it would rot our minds. But the pills and pot and booze? That was supposed to open her to new realities. She would have been great back in the hippy days, but in the twenty-first century, she was just weird. I know she had a high IQ. She bragged about being in Mensa. Maybe that’s what drove her insane.

“Hey, Charlotte,” my customer says.

His name is Brian, and he has a crush on me. I got my nose fixed, and with my tanned skin and my blonder hair, I turn heads. This makes me happy, but not because I want a man. Because my looks give me power over people and situations, something I was missing and didn’t even know it. He’s been flirting with me since I started here.

“Your usual?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. Then he lingers a bit, shuffling his feet. It’s not busy at this time of day, and I wonder if he timed it that way.

Brian has sandy brown hair with a tousled, beachy look. He’s wearing a bright blue polo shirt and khakis. He looks close to thirty, with a hint of crow’s feet framing his hazel eyes, but his smile makes him look closer to my age. I’ve never been the type to fall all over cute guys, and I’ve always suspected that I’m missing something in that department. But he seems nice enough and, objectively speaking, he’s attractive.

“Is there anything else?” I ask, holding his gaze a little longer.

“Um, this might be a little out of the blue, but would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

Another customer joins the line, and I jut my head toward the woman. Grabbing a pen, I write my number on a cup sleeve and hand it to him.

“Call me,” I say.

“Got it,” he says.

And he goes on his way.

I wonder if Brian has a nice apartment somewhere with real plumbing and fluffy towels and throw pillows that sit on a nice, comfy sofa. And a television. My mother’s tactic of withholding TV only made me crave it more.

I don’t have a Cinderella complex. I know that Brian is not going to be the answer to all my problems. But living with him, or a guy like him, has got to be better than sharing a trailer with my brother. Dante is self-medicating. Alcohol. Benzos. Special K. He can’t hold a job. If I stay, I’ll get sucked in and he’ll pull me down with him. And you can’t pull a drowning man out of the water without a life jacket.

So, I take a deep breath and tell myself not to get my hopes up for this guy to be my life jacket. But as I zone out and do my job, I can’t help but fantasize about playing house with Brian. About how nice it would be to have a clean, comfortable home inhabited by two sane people, and maybe even a dog or a cat.

Not fantasize, I tell myself.

Manifest.

Manifest a better future, as Beverly says, and make it your own.

TWENTY-NINE

MONICA

Kelsey is my oldest friend. Well, not my oldest friend. She’s the friend I’ve known for the longest time, since we were in middle school. We go in spurts, and there have been periods in my life when we’ve lost touch, but it’s the type of friendship that picks up where it left off.

Today is no exception. Five minutes ago, she didn’t know Andrew existed, or that I even had a boyfriend. Now she’s holding my hand, turning it from side to side, watching the diamond catch the light.

We haven’t spoken in over two years. She doesn’t live in the Bay Area anymore. She moved to Chicago for a job offer in finance, but she’s home visiting her parents, just for two days. As a medical intern, I don’t have much time for a social life, so when she contacted me, I told her the only commitment I could make was a quick coffee in the hospital cafeteria.

“It has a real Starbucks, though,” I offered. “At least, it looks like a real Starbucks.” I also said that I had a big surprise for her.

“Okay. I’ll come meet you at your sad little job,” she said. “But you better make it worth my while.”

So here we sit. In the cafeteria, looking around for Andrew who promised to pop up and say hi, and it feels almost like it did years ago, in middle school. Sitting at a table in the school cafeteria, hoping to get a glimpse of our crushes and point them out to each other.

“It’s not exactly a rock, but it’ll do.”

“He’s not from money,” I say.

“Yes, but you are. What are you trying to prove, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

Kelsey waves her hand around the room. “The grueling career choice? The bad boy boyfriend, destined to be a financial liability? Is this a rebellion thing? Is this about mommy dearest?”

Rolling my eyes, I ignore the dig.

My friend went another way. MBA. Finance. She grew up in the shadow of Silicon Valley billionaires. New money, and not much of it, but enough of it to know what she was missing out on. She’s dating a hedge fund guy, but not for his money. For his connections.

Kelsey has reddish brown hair, freckles, and an infectious smile that gives her cover. A girl-next-door look that belies her inner shark. She’ll do great in finance. And I wonder if she has a point. What am I trying to prove? I suppose it has something to do with what happened to my brother, Ethan, but I don’t want to think about him right now.

But then Andrew catches my eye from across the room.

My face lights up, and her head turns to see what the fuss is about.

She turns to me, dips her head down, and mouths, “Holy shit. He’s smokin’ hot. Now I get it.”

“Shhh,” I say. “He’s already too full of himself.”

“He can’t hear me,” she says.

“Just, be cool, okay?”

Kelsey chuckles. “Be cool? Are we back in middle school now?” She shakes her head. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you, Mon?”

I can’t think of anything better to say than, “I know you are, but what am I?”

Yes, I’ve officially been time warped back to middle school.

Andrew joins us.

“This is Kelsey,” I say. “The friend I’ve been telling you about.”

“And what have you been telling him?” Kelsey asks.

Andrew smirks. “That the two of you are as thick as thieves, and if I hurt her, you’ll hurt me worse,” Andrew says. “Does that sound like a fair description of the relationship?”

“It does. So tell me, Andrew Decker. Are your intentions toward our little Monica honorable? Have you ever been in prison? Are you now, or have you ever been, a communist?”

“Yes. No. And I plead the fifth,” Andrew says.

“Stop.” I bat her on the arm. “Kelsey’s a bit of an acquired taste.”

“I find her quite humorous, Monica. Maybe she’ll rub off on you. You could lighten up, once in a while.”

Kelsey leans back and eyes Andrew. “Maybe you’re not so bad—for a commie.”

The two of them banter back and forth, until Andrew is paged.

“Sorry, ladies. I have to run,” he says. “Kelsey. It was a pleasure.”

“Take good care of our girl,” Kelsey says. “Or else.”

“Don’t call me a girl,” I say. “And I can take care of myself.”

They share a laugh, ganging up on me a little, but it’s cute. I feel cared for.

But as soon as Andrew is out of earshot, Kelsey turns to me and says, “Be careful with that one, Monica.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re gaga about him, and I’m sorry if this is hard to hear, but I don’t get the feeling that it’s mutual.”

“What the hell, Kelsey? Why would you even say that?” Typical Kelsey, and now I remember why I only tolerate her in small doses. She’s very jaded about love, for someone our age.

She says, “He was flirting with me. Right in front of you.”

“He wasn’t flirting,” I say.

“Wasn’t he?”

But then my pager goes off, and I start to think that Kelsey and her friendship might be better left in the past. This isn’t what I need right now, and she’s certainly not going to be my maid of honor. Andrew is gaga about me, and he wasn’t flirting. That’s just his personality. He’s friendly. Plus, I didn’t press him for marriage. I never even hinted at it. That was all his idea. But if I say anything like that, I’ll only sound desperate to Kelsey.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Wait.” She places a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry to be so blunt. Subtlety has never been my strong suit. I care about you. So, if you’re happy, I’m happy. It’s just a vibe. Vibes can be wrong. But be careful, okay?”

I nod and tell her I will.

But be careful about what?

I haven’t even told her the part that gives me the greatest concern, because if I tell her, she’ll surely make an issue of it, and I’m certain that what Andrew’s ex-girlfriend’s nurse friend told me is bullshit. I confronted Andrew about it. Of course I did. And he said that his ex was just trying to stir up trouble by making up lies about him. That she wasn’t even a girlfriend, just someone he dated a few times until he dumped her.

Rachel is her name. She was a nurse here, but now she’s gone. Making up lies about him and their relationship was her way of retaliating for being dumped, or so claims my future husband. And now her friend is once again trying to make trouble for Andrew and me now that we are engaged, or maybe she actually believes Rachel. I checked with one of Andrew’s fellow residents who knows him pretty well, and he said that Rachel was given to all kinds of dramatic behavior. She left a year ago, and not on great terms.

But still. What Rachel’s friend told me is worse than cheating. But even she didn’t say that Andrew hit Rachel in the face. She told me that Andrew took a swing at Rachel’s face and missed because Rachel ducked out of the way, and then Andrew hit a wall.

Andrew admitted to hitting a wall and claimed her face was nowhere near it, but only because Rachel told her boss that Andrew had coerced her into the relationship. This was retaliation for dumping her, to stir up trouble and leave a mark on his record.

And that much was confirmed. That she’d chased after Andrew, and that he never liked her as much as she liked him. That he’d dumped her. And Rachel later admitted that she made up the part about Andrew trying to force her into a relationship, but she stood by her story that he lost it because of her lie and almost punched her in the face.

She’s a confessed liar, so why should I believe her, or her friend?

I have to admit, though, that when Andrew pounded his fist on the table, I took note. I’m not an idiot. I’ll be careful. Wary. I’ll look for signs.

But punching a wall isn’t that bad. Is it?

Unless that fist was meant for her face.

Because as anyone knows, that is very, very bad.

THIRTY

MONICA

Mother has been asking me to go to lunch with her for the last month, and I’ve finally agreed. I don’t get much time off, but I wanted to show her some respect, since I know the news will be hard for her to accept. We’re at a little bistro in Menlo Park near my house where the tables are close together, and we have to speak softly. She abhors a scene, so I figured this would be better than meeting at her house. She won’t get too upset in public. Plus, this way, there’s a built-in time limit.

“I’m not the enemy here, Monica,” my mother says. “I just want what’s best for you.”

Sure you’re not.

Shrugging, I say, “You’re not changing my mind. I’m marrying Andrew, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Then I take a bite of my Caesar salad, and a crouton slices the roof of my mouth, as if she willed it to reprimand me.

Mom stops eating. She lays down her utensils like a gauntlet. “I know that you think you know everything. I was your age once, and I was the same way. But I’m worried about you. Getting involved with a man like him can have consequences. For you, for your children. Just wait a bit. Opt for a long engagement. See what he’s like after you’ve lived with him a while.”

“We weren’t even exclusive,” I tell her. “And he apologized.”

Shaking her head, she says, “A lot of men cheat, Monica. A lot of women cheat, too. It’s not ideal, but it happens. That’s not my primary concern, although I must insist you put an infidelity clause in the prenup. Stray heirs can pop up out of the blue, making claims. You can’t be too careful these days.”

I have to wonder if my mother is speaking from experience here. My father doesn’t seem the type to cheat, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did. My mother can be emasculating.

“Then what are you concerned about?” I ask.

“Monica. With a background like his? Why aren’t you more concerned?”

The truth is, I don’t know too much about his background. Mother goes on to give me a rundown on his family history, hinting at the fact that she knows that his father was abusive. His mother, she claims, is an alcoholic. That much was obvious, the one time I met her. Sad, but obvious.

My mother lectures me on the cycle of abuse. Tells me that alcoholism is a disease. It runs in families. I wonder if she’s speaking from experience, because I have a feeling grandma was a lush, although I was only six when she died. She always had a funny smell, which I later realized was stale booze.

“How do you know all this?” I ask.

Because I don’t even know all of this.

Part of me is angry with her for meddling in my life, but another part is curious. I think about Andrew, pounding the table in the cafeteria when I brought up his family background. I think about nurse Rachel, and her claim that Andrew nearly punched her in the face.

“I do my due diligence, Monica. It’s prudent, for a family of means.”

First the photos. Now this. She must have a private investigator, following Andrew around. Trying to find dirt and get me to break it off with him. I wonder if she follows me, too. My mind flashes to my date with Bradley Powell, and the way he forced himself on me. I didn’t bother to tell her about that part, although I did say it didn’t go well. Why didn’t she investigate him?

“Yes, Mom. You’d rather have me date a tool like Bradley Powell.”

“Oh, Monica. I must apologize for that setup. You are correct. I made an assumption, since he was from a good family. His mother tried to hide his drinking and drug problem from all of us. Was that an issue? On the date?”

Thinking back, I remember that Bradley drank almost the whole bottle of wine. He was tipsy, and on a first date, that seemed a little troubling. I wonder what he does when he’s comfortable with a woman. If he was also on drugs, that could account for the lapse in judgment.

“Yes,” I say. “He drank nearly the whole bottle.” I decide not to tell her anymore about the date. At least he didn’t tell his mother that I may have broken his foot. I smile a little when I picture him hobbling away. “How did you find out about the drinking and the drugs?” I ask.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? His car went barreling off Skyline a few days ago. His blood alcohol was over the limit, and he had some kind of prescription sedatives in his system. His mother confessed to me that he’d started on some prescription drug when he was in college, to keep up his grades, and then needed sedatives to calm himself down. I guess he never broke the habit. But Bradley Powell is dead, Monica. Don’t worry. You won’t be hearing from him again.”

Swallowing, I sit up a little straighter in my chair and say, “Wow. That’s too bad.”

Mom nods.

Then I change the subject. “Are you going to cut me off?” I ask. “Because if you are, I’m still marrying Andrew. I can’t be bought.”

She smirks. “Everyone can be bought, Monica. But don’t worry, I won’t punish my future grandchildren for your lack of judgment. You are open to having children? Your brother is no longer an option. You’re my only hope. I’d hate to have to leave it all to charity.”

Well, at least I know her Achilles’ heel.

Grandchildren.

“Yes, I want children, Mother. A boy and a girl.”

“They will be beautiful,” she says. “So at least there’s that.”

Maybe my mother and I are more alike than I realize.

We finish up our lunch with cappuccinos, sticking with lighter topics, until she calls over the waiter and pays the check.

As we’re leaving, she says, “You’ll be hearing from Stanley.”

Stanley is our family attorney.

Reading between the lines, she’s not going to cut me off. She’s going to cut me out. Pass it all to my children. Which is fine with me. Andrew and I can make enough money on our own to live the way I want, and at least I know they’ll be taken care of.

But silly me.

Talking about children who don’t exist yet.

I will heed her warning about Andrew, though. Keep an eye out for the drinking and the anger, although I don’t share my mother’s cavalier attitude toward cheating.

If he cheats again, I won’t be so forgiving.

PRESENT DAY

THIRTY-ONE

MONICA

“Where’s Dad?” Trina says as she heads into the kitchen for a glass of water.

My stomach sinks, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. Although I know it is not normal for Andrew to still be at work this late in the evening, I didn’t think Trina kept track of when her father got home. It’s nearly ten o’clock, and he’s not back yet, so I guess I was wrong.

“He’s probably working late,” I say.

“I called him,” she says. “He’s not answering his cell. He always answers when I call, unless he’s in surgery. But he’s not doing surgery this week, so why isn’t he answering?”

“You know how he is,” I tell her. “And he may be scrubbing in to observe.”

But she’s not having it.

“I said, he always picks up when I call, or he texts me back. Maybe that guy from the hospital did something to him, Mom. Gramma was worried about it. She said we should get some security. Why didn’t you listen to her?”

I try to wave off her concerns, but I realize she makes a valid point. Our names have been all over the media. The man was unhinged enough to take a hostage and hold a knife to his throat. It’s understandable that she’s worried about her father. “What do you suggest we do?”

Her face twists, as if she’s smelled a noxious odor. “Why are you asking me? You’re the adult. You should know what to do.”

“Let’s give it another hour, and if we don’t hear from him, I’ll take action.”

She lets out a huff. “I know you don’t love him anymore. But I do.”

I’ve tried to shield my children from our marital problems, but obviously I’ve failed. “It’s not that simple, Trina,” I say.

Whipping out her phone, she says, “I’m calling the police.”

“Wait. Let me call the hospital first and get them to page your dad. If he doesn’t answer the page, I’ll call the police. I promise.”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.

Noah is asleep, but Trina comes bounding down the stairs.

“It’s the police!” she cries out. “Why are the police at our door?”

Frozen to the spot, I can’t seem to move my legs. It’s as if I want to stop time. To prevent what’s outside that door from coming in and invading my home, because I know that life will never be the same again.

“Mom!” my daughter cries out.

I turn to her with my legs still planted firmly on the ground.

“Mom! Open the door!” Trina commands.

My daughter’s cries snap me out of my stupor. Nodding, I walk over and open it. Trina tucks herself under my arm, and I pull her tightly against me.

Two officers stand before me, a man and a woman, both young with somber looks on their faces. The woman speaks first. “Mrs. Decker. I’m afraid we have some bad news. It’s about your husband. Would you like to step outside?” She motions to Trina.

“No,” Trina says. “I want to know.”

“Tell us both,” I say to the officer.

I only absorb bits and pieces of what she’s saying.

Hit and run.

Internal bleeding.

Didn’t make it.

Expecting Trina to cry out, I pull her against my body, but she doesn’t scream. Instead, she crumbles into a ball and sobs.

We stand at the open door, the officers still out on the landing. I haven’t had the presence of mind to ask them in. I bend down and rub my daughter’s back, knowing I should say something.

Before I can get the words out, the man speaks. “I know this is a difficult situation, but we really need to ask you some questions. May we come in?”

“Of course,” I say.

After I help Trina up, they tell me it’s better if they talk to me alone. But I can’t let Trina process this by herself. I’m surprised Noah is sleeping through all of this. He’s the lighter sleeper. “Let me call my mother,” I say. “She lives close by. You can wait in the den until she gets here, and then I’ll talk to you.”

Mother shows up within twenty minutes.

I hand off my sobbing daughter and head into the den to talk to the officers, who are milling around the room, poking their noses into our business. The two officers take the armchairs, so I sit on the loveseat, and I have to turn my head from side to side if I want to make eye contact with both of them, since all the furniture points toward the big screen TV.

Officer Campbell, the woman, seems to be the senior of the two. She asks most of the questions. I ask her if she is familiar with the hospital incident, and she is. She looks to be about thirty, with shoulder-length dark hair. Serious, but with kind eyes. We get through the basics. They tell me it was a hit and run. There were no witnesses, but they are looking for camera footage in the area, and they are hopeful something will turn up.

Then they speak to one another as if it was an accident, like I’m not in the room. The male officer suggests that it could have been a teenager, sowing his wild oats. The female officer nods.

Up until this point, she’s been sympathetic, treating me like a grieving widow. But her look hardens when she trains her eyes on me and says, “How was your relationship with your husband?”

My heart starts to beat a little faster, but I struggle to keep my composure.

This is standard procedure, I know. But still. I wonder what they already know.

Shrugging, I say, “It was fine.”

She tilts her head to one side and says, “Fine?”

“Good,” I add. “Our relationship was good.”

“Okay. Was anything bothering your husband?”

“There was that incident at the hospital,” I say.

But we’ve already been over that, when they first arrived, before my mother got here. I’m not sure why she’s asking again.

“Yes. Aside from that,” she clarifies.

“He was up for a promotion, but that got sidelined because the current Chief of Surgery decided to stay on rather than retire. I suppose that could be bothering him.” Realizing I just talked about my husband in the present tense, my breath catches, and I grab the arm of the loveseat. “I’m sorry, it’s just, I can’t believe this is really happening.”

Officer Thomas looks mid-twenties. Tall and wiry, with deep-set dark eyes that seem to disappear into his face when he leans in and peers at me, almost like he’s squinting. “What about at home? Anything bothering him at home? We’re trying to determine if he may have been distracted on his run.”

“Not that I know of, but sometimes he runs with ear buds. I told him not to, but he likes it. Did you find ear buds?”

Officer Campbell shoots me a sideways glance. “We’re asking the questions, Mrs. Decker.”

“It’s Dr. Decker,” I say.

“My apologies,” she says. “Dr. Decker.”

Then she asks about my work. I tell her I’m a radiologist, but I work as a contractor.

“So your husband works more hours than you do? And you’re here at home more, with the children?”

“Yes,” I say. “What does this have to do with the accident?”

Neither of them answers me. Instead, the male officer asks, “Did your husband have any enemies?”

“Why? Do you think this may have been intentional?”

“Just answer the question, please,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “I already told you. The man from the ER who he… subdued.”

“Subdued. Right,” Officer Campbell says. “Does your husband have a bad temper, Dr. Decker?”

Obviously, they are more familiar with this case than I thought. That’s not surprising since it’s been plastered all over the news. But they seem to know more than what’s out in the media. They could very well ask Andrew’s boss about his temperament. They probably will, and then they’ll know he was mandated to take an anger management class.

“He was passionate,” I offer. “Animated. I suppose that could be interpreted by some people as anger. You should ask his boss. There may have been people he pissed off at work. But not enough to run him over, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Officer Thomas chimes in. “Anyone from his personal life that might want to run him over? Was he having an affair?” he asks.

“No. Nothing like that,” I say, trying very hard not to lie to the police. Looking to the woman, I add, “Andrew’s a handsome man. Was, a handsome man.” I take a moment to compose myself, and then I continue. “Women flirted with him all the time, but as far as I know, he’s never slept with another woman.”

Leaning back in her chair, Officer Campbell says, “A handsome man. Okay. And women flirted with him. Did he ever flirt back?”

My stomach sinks. “Well, if he did, it wouldn’t have been in front of me, so you’d have to ask around.”

She nods. “Fair point. Did your husband have an admirer, maybe? Anything like that? Someone who may have been interested in him? Someone whose affection he perhaps did not return?”

“Not that I know of,” I answer.

But I do.

And how long do I have before that comes out?

When I get out into the living room, Trina’s sobbing has slowed to a trickle. I expect her to lash out at me, but that’s not what happens. Instead, she runs into my arms.

“Mommy,” she says.

My heart aches for my little girl. As I hold her and rock her, I’m time-warped back to when she was four, when mommy was her world. I remember she’d look at me with those doe eyes, drinking in all the love and affection and attention I gave her.

When did it change? Was it when Noah was born and he pulled me away from her? Did she resent it on some biological level and bond with her father? Or is the mother-daughter tension we have now a natural part of growing up?

We used to be so close, and in the madness of this evening, we both find solace in each other. And for the moment, I hold her. Rock her. Try to forget all about the tough road ahead. For a few short moments, it’s just me and my little girl.

And I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep her safe.

THIRTY-TWO

MONICA

What do I do now?

Sitting on the sofa in the living room with my mother and Trina back in her room, I’m barely listening as she runs down a to-do list for me.

I must get the children into grief counseling.

I must call an attorney.

I must make arrangements.

She tells me that if this was intentional, I’ll be a suspect, as if I don’t already know that. “Tell the attorney everything,” she says. “But tell the police nothing.”

It’s sound advice, but I wish she’d said that before I met with them. Trina has gone to bed. Noah never woke. I shudder when I think about the fact that my son will wake up believing that his father is still alive.

My mother is well versed in how to handle the sudden death of a husband. My father was shot five years ago, in a home invasion gone bad. She was away, visiting her sister. My father fought back, the police said, but he didn’t stand a chance. Their gun was in a safe, and he didn’t have time to retrieve it. The case is cold. The perpetrator, never found.

Mother has long hounded me about getting a gun. She sleeps with one near her bed now. But we have small children, and I’ve always been against the idea. You hear all the time about children getting a hold of their parents’ weapons, either accidentally or intentionally. And Andrew, with his anger issues? I’ve always thought a gun in our home had more potential for harm than for good, especially if I kept it locked away somewhere. A lot of good it did my dad.

But Andrew is dead now, and the kids are older. And it’s clear that Ben, or whatever his real name is, is unstable. Dangerous. A threat to all of us.

“I know things with Andrew weren’t so hunky-dory. And if I know, the detectives will find out. If you have an idea of who could have done this, tell the attorney, but not the police. Anything to deflect attention from you is a win.”

She’s speaking from experience. For a while, there was a cloud of suspicion hanging over her about my father’s murder. It’s what they do, go after the spouse, even though there was no obvious motive. My mother controlled the money, and I doubt she would kill my father over an affair. I have a hard time believing he would cheat, either. He was devoted to her, and I know she had an infidelity clause in the prenup, just like me. If anything, my mother would have been the one to cheat. Men fell all over her, and she relished the attention.

When her attorney did some research, she found that there were a series of similar home invasions in other towns, but because they were scattered around the Bay Area in different municipalities, the police hadn’t connected them.

Then a neighbor of ours, a few houses down, went missing a few days after my father was killed, and there were signs of a break-in. The cops thought that someone might be targeting wealthy people, forcing them to transfer large sums of money, a practice that had been on their radar. But later, they found out our neighbor had embezzled from his company, and they figured he just staged the break-in and skipped town.

Later in the investigation, the police tried to pin my father’s murder on a guy who was convicted for one of the other home invasions, but he refused to fess up. Nobody had died in any of the others. He was in for robbery, and there was no way he was confessing to murder with only circumstantial evidence. Still, it took the spotlight off my mother, and eventually, they stopped bothering her. She is a prominent donor to law enforcement. They knew better than to continue to harass her.

If they find out about Ben, it will shine a spotlight on me. “It could have been an accident,” I offer.

“Sure, Monica.” Mother smirks. “Accidents happen.”

“The guy from the hospital could have done this,” I offer. “Lenny Millstein. And if so, he might be dangerous for us. I told the police about him, but they already knew.”

Rolling her eyes, she says, “Of course they already know about him. It was all over the news. Don’t say another word to the police without your attorney present. But I agree with you about one thing. You might be in danger, and you and my grandchildren need some protection.”

I know where she’s going with this, and this time I agree with her. “I know, Mom. I need a gun in the house. Locked. Loaded. Ready to go.”

Mother reaches into her purse and hands me her Glock 42. “Finally. Do you remember how to use it?”

Taking the weapon from her hand, I tell her, “It’s not something you forget, but I’m a little out of practice.”

She purses her lips. “Take it to the range, if you can find the time. And put it somewhere the kids can’t get it, but you can get to it quickly. Your purse, when you’re awake. Your nightstand drawer, when you’re asleep.”

I nod, hardly able to get my brain around the fact that my mother is instructing me on where to hide a lethal weapon so her grandchildren won’t find it.

“Wherever you go in the house, keep the purse somewhere you can get to it fast, like a life preserver when you’re out at sea. Because that’s what it is. Your life preserver. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” I say.

“Good. Now let’s get you set up with an attorney.”

After my mother leaves, I pull out the burner.

There are five more messages from Ben, all basically saying the same thing:

Where are you, Monica?

Why aren’t you answering me?

I need to see you. NOW.

I struggle with whether or not to tell the attorney about him or toss the phone in the bay somewhere, my fear of going to prison overshadowed only by the fear of my pen pal erupting into a violent rage.

How can I protect my family?

How can I spin this in a way that doesn’t make me look complicit?

What is Ben going to do next?

What have I done?

THIRTY-THREE

CHARLOTTE

My voice is calm, measured.

Because if I shout, it will only make it worse.

“Dante. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

My brother is curled up in a ball on the bed, digging his nails into his arms, almost in a catatonic state. He gets like this sometimes. At first, he was ranting, seemingly in a manic phase. Going on about Monica, and how something must be wrong. Claiming that something terrible must have happened to her because she wasn’t answering his texts.

“I have to see her,” he shrieked, thrashing around wildly, but I blocked his exit and wouldn’t let him leave the bedroom of my apartment. I didn’t realize how bad he’s declined in the last year or so.

He showed up here in the Bay Area, about a month after I moved here and got a job. I never should have answered the door. I’m sick of being his caretaker, I could seriously push him off a cliff at this point. For years, Brian and I tried to help him, but he has become a lost cause, just like my mother. Now I have to share a cramped, one-bedroom apartment with him, and lately, I’ve been sleeping on the sofa.

I forced a sedative or two on him. “Take these,” I said. “Or I’m calling nine-one-one, and they’ll put you in a psych ward, where you belong.”

He curled into a ball and went silent.

It was a terrible idea to have him meet with her in person. I only agreed to it because he’d been pressing me after he figured out what I was up to, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to screw with her head. Get her to see that her fantasy man wasn’t who she thought he was. To show her that she’d been played, just after she got the photos that I hoped would blow her world apart. I’d leave her with nothing, not even a fantasy man.

It was foolish. Rash. I know that now, but it’s something I can’t change. I need to stop ruminating and take action. So here I sit, waiting for my brother to fall asleep. Later, I’ll find out what he was ranting about. For now, I just need him to shut the hell up so I can plan my next steps. I have a feeling that whatever happened, it’s something that is very, very bad, and I need to get ahead of it.

I tried to move on. Really, I did. But it wasn’t that simple. Yes, I got a degree with no student loan debt. Got engaged to, then married, a nice, stable guy named Brian Fairbanks who ran a chain of auto body repair shops. Landed a decent job as a cybersecurity expert for a medium-size insurance company. It was there that I acquired skills that proved to be useful to me.

But I longed for more. My life was dull. Pedestrian. I was destined for more. I suppressed my burning desire to find out what happened to my father. I tried to block it all out. And although I tried to forget the woman who ripped him away from me, I couldn’t. I’d see her condescending face, smiling at me in the ER. In my dreams, or in my mind’s eye.

I wondered where my father had gone. Nevada? Mexico? I figured it was somewhere far away. I knew he’d probably changed his name. Moved to a different state. I never looked, though. I was strong enough for that, partly because I didn’t want to discover that he was dead. That there was no hope at all. If I didn’t look, I could keep the fantasy of a reunion alive.

Then about five months ago, I got a call from a medical center in Reno, Nevada, a town about a three-hour drive from San Jose, where I’d lived with my parents. My father had changed his name, but his Social Security number was the same. This allowed the medical team to track me down, because I was his next of kin. They wanted to let me know that he only had a few days to live. If I wanted to see him, I needed to come, fast. And I needed to tell them what to do with the body.

By the time I got there, he was in and out of consciousness. Liver cancer. He’d never been a big drinker, but the guilt must have pushed him in that direction.

I sat by his bedside for two days, only leaving to use the bathroom or grab a coffee. It was half a day until he woke. At first, he didn’t recognize me.

“It’s me, Dad,” I said. “Shari.”

He squinted. “Shari? Is it really you?”

That was his nickname for me, and a longing shot through me. A longing for all the years we lost. For all the years we’d never have together. For all the years that were taken from me. I feared that seeing him again would make me angry, but it didn’t.

Swallowing, I said, “Yes, Dad. It’s me.”

He blinked back his tears, unable to speak for a few long moments. I held his frail hand in mine. “You’re so beautiful. And I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Shh, Dad. That’s not what this is about. Let’s not waste the little time we have.”

He nodded.

“Are you in pain? Do you need anything?” I asked.

Shaking his head, he said, “No. If they give me any more, it’ll knock me out. I want this time with you. I can take the pain. It’s not that bad right now.”

Emotions I didn’t know I was capable of feeling washed over me when I realized that my father would choose pain just so he could spend time with me. I’d never been a crier, except as a toddler when I didn’t get my way. But suddenly, the floodgates opened. Tears streamed from my eyes. Tears that had been bottled up for years. Sobbing, I could barely catch my breath. With all the tubes and wires connected to him, we couldn’t really hug each other, although I wanted to.

Sensing this, Dad squeezed my hand. “There, there, honey,” he said.

After my sobs slowed to a trickle, he asked, “Are you a doctor now?”

“No,” I said. “It never worked out for me.”

“You’re still young. Don’t give up.”

He asked me if I was married. I told him I was divorced. He seemed a little sad that he had no grandkids. I suppose on your deathbed, you’d like to think about living on, through them.

“Maybe someday,” I told him. Although it was kind of a lie. I’m not cut out for family life, but it felt good to give him hope. I filled him in on Dante, who was declining. Starting to act like Mom.

“I always suspected he had a touch of it. Your mother got worse as she got older. It might be the same with your brother, so watch out. And don’t make him your problem. I’m sorry. So sorry that I dumped it all on you.” He winced, and I could tell he needed more pain meds. This time I insisted, and he went back to sleep.

Our conversations over the next two days were short, punctuated by long periods of reflection on my part while he slept. We settled for getting bits and pieces of the last decade or so of each other’s lives, but there was no time for details. He’d never remarried or had another serious relationship. It seemed to me a lonely life, and I was glad I could comfort him in his final moments.

And the last time we communicated, before he slipped into unconsciousness and passed on, I asked him what I’d wanted to know all these years. “What happened that day? Did you do what they said? Did you do that to Mom?”

He shook his head. “No. At least, I don’t think I did? She was out of control. It all happened so fast. It was an accident, Shari. A tragic accident.”

“Then why did you leave me?” I asked. “We could have explained it, with her issues. You wouldn’t have gone to prison, I’m sure of it.”

Letting out a raspy breath, he said, “Because I was a coward. I saw an out, and I took it. I’m sorry, honey. It was all just too much, and I couldn’t take it anymore.”

That woman.

She’d robbed me of the only person who’d ever cared for me. The only love I’d ever known. Feelings of longing and grief overwhelmed me. I had no place to put them. I’d never experienced this before. So, I traded them for emotions that were more familiar to me.

Resentment.

Anger.

Fury.

I was not living well.

I was living in pain.

That woman would pay for it.

And then I’d feel better.

THIRTY-FOUR

CHARLOTTE

Except that I don’t feel better.

Especially when I search the news reports and learn that Andrew Decker is dead.

A hit and run?

I don’t know for sure that my brother did this, but it’s all over the news and social media. I had my car with me when Andrew Decker was killed. How would Dante have gotten hold of a car?

Maybe Dante saw the news report before I did. Got confused. Took this as some kind of sign that he was supposed to be with Monica. Maybe he didn’t kill Andrew, but he started to believe he really was Ben. That I can believe.

I was careful to cover my tracks online, but if they open up a homicide investigation, they’ll have tools at their disposal that are way above my pay grade. It was not supposed to come to this. I never meant for anyone to die.

In the wake of my grief and pain, I got serious about tracking her down. I knew what she looked like. How many female radiologists could there be in the Bay Area? Unless she was no longer in the Bay Area. I’d tried to find her once before, soon after I got to Jacksonville, but I couldn’t find anyone who looked like her, and then I took Beverly’s advice and moved on. But not before I learned that the majority of radiologists are men, and if that was still the case, then I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to track her down.

I was methodical about it, searching by county, starting with where I met her. Most websites that list doctors and their specialties don’t have photos, but I narrowed it down to about a hundred and fifty names in Santa Clara County, and about the same in San Mateo County. Only about a quarter were women, so once I had those names, I searched on other social media sites. It took me three days, but finally, I saw a face.

A face that belonged to a woman named Monica Decker. Dr. Monica Decker. Married to Dr. Andrew Decker, who was still as handsome and charming as he’d been that day in the cafeteria—until he pounded the table with his fist.

I remembered the look in her eye. That reptilian flash of fear. I wondered if their marriage was as good as she pretended it was in her online profiles, with her happy children and scenes of domestic bliss. I fantasized that it was not.

She’d aged well, but not as well as he had. Perhaps he was cheating. Probably, he was. Or if he hadn’t yet, perhaps a perky blonde woman could entice him to cross the line. I became a touch obsessed with her. With them. Somehow, I’d ruin their marriage.

Somehow, I’d make her pay.

She lived in the Bay Area, I discovered. Menlo Park, near Redwood City, where I first met her. On her website, she claimed to be a locum tenens radiologist, so she wasn’t associated with any particular hospital or medical facility, which might make it harder for me to get my revenge. If I wanted to go after her, I needed to be close.

So, I applied for jobs in Silicon Valley, and eventually, I landed one, as a pharmaceutical sales representative. The salary was much higher than my salary in Florida, but so was the cost of housing. The job was also mind-numbingly boring, and way too social, forcing me to adopt a perky little blonde girl persona that made me cringe and left me craving solitude.

Still, it was worth it, I thought.

So here I am, holding my head in my hands. Waiting for my brother to wake up and tell me how bad it is. It’s possible that Andrew Decker had other enemies, like the father who took that hostage in the ER. Maybe Dante had nothing to do with the hit and run, or maybe it was an accident.

I’m not one to panic. And I do have a contingency plan, except Dante could really screw it up for me. So while my brother sleeps off the pills I forced down his throat, I take the opportunity to slip out and take care of some business, just in case.

I go to the bank and close out my checking account. With the cash I have stashed in the apartment, I’ll have enough money to hold me over for about two months if I move somewhere cheap. I grab a few disposable cell phones. Some hair dye. More food, because we have nothing left in the apartment.

The only other person who can screw this up for me is Monica Decker. She met my brother. She would be able to identify him. And she saw my face at the hospital. I couldn’t resist the temptation to fuck with her head a little that day. She could find out about me. Identify me.

Sometimes, often in fact, I am my own worst enemy. Talking to her was an impulse move. Shari Bukowski. I made that up on the spot. Charles Bukowski was another of Mother’s literary heroes. Do with that what you will. I keep my aliases close to my real name, because I read once that it’s easier that way, to not blow your cover. Char. Shari. Charlene. Anything but Charlotte, but what if she figures it out?

But Monica Decker has more to lose than I do. If she turns her burner phone over to the cops, they’ll see that she’s been almost plotting to kill her husband. Almost daring “Ben” to do it for her. Leading my brother on, letting him think that they could someday be together, pushing him over the edge. Maybe they would charge her with conspiracy to commit murder. So, all I have to worry about are the detectives.

And Dante.

If it came to me or Monica, whose story would he back?

He’s not well. There’s no predicting what he might do. He might even be using street drugs again, although he’d hide that from me. I’d put a stop to it. I did that last time. Cut him off, and when he showed up here, he promised he was clean. He knows I’ll kick him to the curb if he’s using, and I’m not giving him any more money. I don’t have more to give.

As I’m driving home from my errands, I think back on the day that Dante went to meet up with Monica, and something doesn’t add up. He didn’t seem that taken by her. He said she was pretty, but kind of stuck up. They hadn’t talked for very long.

According to Dante, she told him that she’d made a big mistake. That she and her husband were finding their way back to each other. She apologized for leading him on. He seemed a little dejected that night, but he wasn’t enraged. I suppose he must have slipped into some kind of fantasy world after meeting her in person. I should never have let him take over the text streams. Up until recently, I’d been the one communicating with her.

When I get home, I head into my apartment and walk toward the bedroom to wake Dante. He should be ready to get up by now. I gave him a double dose, but he’s built up a tolerance. For a brief moment, I worry that it may have been too much. That if he had something else in his system, he might be in a coma, or worse. How would I explain a dead body? Would that make the police more or less likely to make their way back to me?

But when I open the bedroom door, my stomach drops, like I’m in an elevator that’s plummeting down fifty floors.

Dante is gone.

Fishing around on the bed and down on the floor, I find one of the pills I gave him. I’m sure the other is around here somewhere. He must have tricked me and spit them out. I wonder if he learned that one from my mother. She pulled that one on us on more than one occasion.

Then I race over to my closet, reach up high on the shelf, and grab one of the shoe boxes. I open the lid, and my pulse pounds. My fake ID is here, but Dante took all my cash—about two thousand dollars—and my switchblade.

My brother has played me, and that’s a terrifying thought.

To what end?

What does Dante want?

What will he do next?

THIRTY-FIVE

MONICA

“Tell me everything,” my attorney says.

Her name is Jennifer Starkey. My mother insisted on this defense lawyer in particular because she handles a fair number of domestic abuse cases. I tried to tell my mother that this wasn’t a domestic abuse case, but she insisted. “She got a woman acquitted who shot her husband in cold blood. She’s who you need. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, Monica. For once, listen to me.”

Her office is large and functional, with a wall of books and a stately mahogany desk that is stacked with folders, but not in a haphazard manner. I sit across from her as she holds a fancy pen in her fingertips, ready to jot down some information that I hope will clear me of suspicion.

My mother didn’t exactly say that this was the same attorney who represented her when my father was killed, but I’m pretty sure it is. I didn’t run over my husband, and I don’t think my mother faked a home invasion and shot my father to death. But I have a sneaking suspicion that my mother knows more about my story than she’s letting on, and that there was more to my father’s untimely death than I know.

My attorney has shoulder-length auburn hair and a pleasant smile that seems genuine when she says, “I’m on your side, Monica.” The trouble is, she looks more like an aging kindergarten teacher than a shark who defends murderers and gets them acquitted, but I go with it. What choice do I have?

“I had an online affair,” I say. “But I was catfished.”

I show her the photos of the man I thought was Ben. He has sandy blond hair and a boyish smile. I don’t have many pictures. Just a few. I tell her that I met “Ben” in an online support group for partners of workaholics, and that our conversations started to veer off in another direction when I mentioned my husband’s anger issues. Then we got burner phones and moved off the support group.

“How long had this been going on, before you met up with him in person?” she asks.

“About two months,” I say.

“Who started talking about the anger issues first?” she asks. “You, or him?”

Staring off to the side for a moment, I turn back and tell her, “I’m actually not sure.”

“Whose idea was it to meet up?” she asks.

“His,” I say. “I’d been putting him off, but then I guess curiosity got the better of me.”

She nods. “It should bode well for you that there was no actual affair. But I need to see your text streams. If you gave him the impression that you wanted him to do this for you, if he actually did this…” She waits, eyeing me with a look that makes me think she might be effective on a cross-examination, after all. “Did you?” she asks. “Did you give him that impression?”

Shrugging, I tell her the truth. “No. Not exactly. But it became a sort of game to me,” I admit. “It didn’t feel real. It felt like I was a character in a book I was writing. Probably because we had never met up in person. My husband does… my husband did have anger issues. At work, his boss mandated that he take an anger management course, but I never found out why. And I’m sure you read about the incident at the hospital.”

“I did. But tell me more about you, and your mindset.”

I take a deep breath, let it out, and unload my demons. “When Andrew had an anger outburst, I’d go through a cycle. First there was the visceral fear. Sometimes, he’d shake his fist over me, while I cowered in the corner. Once, I had to run into the bathroom and lock myself in to get away from him. The fear was real, but then it would shift.

“The anger came next. I wanted revenge. That’s when I’d have dark thoughts. That’s when I’d engage with Ben about how relieved I’d be if Andrew was out of my life. Then came the denial and self-doubt. I’d tell myself it was all in my head. That his anger outbursts were tolerable, because he’d never hit me. But Ben seemed to feel that I was in danger. He started pushing my thoughts in that direction. I started thinking, what if Andrew blew a gasket one day, like those family annihilators? What if he killed me? What if he hurt my kids? Maybe I needed to get ahead of it.”

“By get ahead of it, you mean, harm him in some way?”

Shrugging, I say, “I don’t know. Maybe? It was a fantasy. A dark fantasy. I thought about leaving him, too. But that was a problem. How could I get full custody when I had no proof of his behavior? When he’d never actually hit me? And things weren’t all bad, you know? We had kids. He could be charming. Fun. I vacillated. Andrew was the love of my life. He had a bad childhood. I made excuses for his behavior. I tried to get him into counseling. I loved him. I still do, in a way, although I know how crazy that sounds.”

“Monica. What you’re telling me. The fear you felt? It sounds real to me. Women don’t cower in the corner or hide in bathrooms for no reason. It sounds to me like you were a domestic abuse victim waiting to happen. Most victims of domestic violence feel conflicted. That’s why it’s so hard to leave.”

Now I know why my mother recommended her.

“Maybe you have a point. I tried to kid myself, but when I found out that his employer mandated the anger management class. And when he pummeled that guy in the ER…”

We wait a beat, and then she changes the subject. “What did you hope to accomplish by meeting Ben in person?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I just needed some support. I couldn’t tell my mother. I don’t have a lot of close friends. It’s so embarrassing. I didn’t want anyone to know how he really got, when we were alone together. I used to have friends, but over the years, they’ve melted away. We moved for his fellowship. I had my daughter right away. I didn’t have time for friends, and I had nobody to talk to about him. By the time we moved back here, I’d gotten used to having no social life; I didn’t even try to reconnect with anyone.”

She nods along. “Maybe your husband liked it that way. It sounds like he was trying to isolate you. Sometimes, that’s what men like him do, to gain more control. What happened when you met Ben in person that day? Walk me through it.”

“At first, I thought he was some homeless guy, sitting with me so I’d buy him a coffee or something. And when I realized I’d been catfished, I was angry. I just wanted to get out of there. But he seemed off, and I didn’t want to rile him.”

“That’s understandable. How did he take your reaction?”

“He seemed confused. Offended. Maybe even hurt. At first, I recoiled from him. Then I tried to soften my approach and play along. I told him it was all a big mistake. That I was reconciling with my husband. I didn’t mention the photos that clearly weren’t him. I figured that was the safest thing to do. He seemed unstable.”

“And how did you leave it? How did you get him to go?”

Shrugging, I tell her, “I’m afraid I may have given him false hope. I told him that he needed to be patient. That maybe after my kids were grown, I could think about leaving Andrew. I was desperate to get out of there. I wasn’t sure what he would do. Will that get me in trouble? Can I tell the police what I said?”

“It was good thinking, Monica. If he decided to take it further, what he did afterward is on him, not you. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though. It could have been an accidental hit and run. But how did Ben take that?”

“Not very well, obviously, with the texts I’ve been getting. At the time, though, it seemed as if he understood.”

“And now you’re afraid of this Ben?”

“Very,” I say. “He won’t stop texting me. He seems to think we can be together now. But what do I do? If I tell the police about him, it could look like I put him up to it, if he actually did it. Should I wait? Maybe it’ll be one of those unsolved hit and runs that just fades away.”

“That’s not likely to happen. And you suspect it was him. If the police find out that you had these interactions with him before you disclose it, it will be way worse for you. If he did it, it will really seem like you put him up to it. So, give me the burner phone and let me comb through it. See what we’re up against. Maybe my investigator can glean something about his whereabouts. Then I’ll turn it in to the police. I’ll spin it in a way that makes you look sympathetic. In the meantime, we can get you some police protection.”

“Would they do that for me?”

“Why not? Some crazy guy catfished you. Possibly killed your husband so he could be with you. Now he’s angry that you don’t feel the same way about him. Stick with that storyline about your fantasy world. Online interactions can be like that. You never meant anything by it. It was all a way of coping with your husband’s potential for violence, and his anger outbursts. Unless there’s a money trail or a text that says, Hey Ben. Kill my husband, you should be fine.”

I look off to the side for a moment, then back at her.

“There’s not, right?” she asks, peering at me in her schoolteacher way.

“Of course not,” I tell her.

“Okay, then. Give me your phone.”

I hand it to her and she says, “Oh. One more thing. Did your husband ever lash out at your children?” she asks.

My stomach lurches as I sit bolt upright. “I’d never stand for that. I would have divorced him.”

“Of course. That’s not what I was implying. But did they know about your arguments and their father’s anger problem? What would they say, if they had to testify?”

“I do not want my kids dragged into this.”

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that. If it does, I’ll prep them.”

“You’re well paid for your services,” I say. “And I didn’t kill my husband. So, fix this, and make sure that it doesn’t involve my children.”

My children were the reason I wanted to move back here. In New Jersey, I had nobody. I had no power in the relationship. Andrew called the shots. If I got back here, I figured I’d have my mother, and as much as we had our problems, she adored her grandchildren. She was alone, after my father was killed. I applied for a job as chair of a radiology department, thinking I didn’t have a chance. Perhaps my mother pulled some strings? All I know is, I got the offer.

Andrew was dead set against the move, but I persuaded him that it would be better for us in the long run. That my mother would be more likely to help out with the kids if we were here. He grew up poor, and he was pragmatic enough to know that if our kids had a nest egg, life would be easier for them.

But he complained that I wasn’t paying enough attention to the kids, and it was true. I wasn’t. But he wasn’t either. Andrew worked constantly, and did next to nothing as far as childcare. I felt torn all the time between my two roles as chair and as a mom. I decided to step down, and that didn’t make him happy, either. Andrew likes nice things. He has a big ego. He wanted to move out of the Bay Area, to somewhere we could live large on what he made.

But really, is that why he wanted to move us away from here?

Or was it to isolate me again?

To take away my power?

I dug in my heels about staying here, and started to assert myself a little more. And then things got worse. Way worse. And I stopped asserting myself. Stopped working full time. Stopped seeing friends. Stopped seeing my mother. Turned inward, until it all became too much and I started opening up to a guy I met online.

And now, here I am.

Talking to an attorney.

Trying to stay out of prison.

And wondering where Ben is, and what he’ll do next.

THIRTY-SIX

MONICA

“How are the children doing?” my mother asks.

The short answer is, not great. The news about my online affair has gone public, and the reaction on social media has been mixed, but mostly bad. The fact that I was catfished is drumming up some empathy, from people who have met the same fate. The fact that this stalker guy could have been the person who ran down my husband has prompted a debate about online safety.

But I’m also seen by some as an adulteress, a scarlet “A” forever branded on my breast, even though it’s clear that this Ben guy is unstable and a threat to my family, and that I never actually did anything with him. There’s an APB out on my mystery man, with a sketch of the suspect, based on my description.

Some people find it humorous that I was duped. Some people think I’m a murderer. I stopped looking at our neighborhood app, and all social media, but some of the comments are forever burned into my brain:

An emotional affair is an affair.

What did she expect?

She got what she wanted.

Maybe she put him up to it.

It’s been a week since their father died. I warned them off of social media, but you know how kids are. I’m sure they are aware of the chatter, whether they are looking or not. The story broke just after Andrew’s services, which is fortunate. That would have been worse.

The afternoon of Andrew’s celebration of life was warm and breezy. Thankfully, not too hot. He wasn’t the type of guy who was comfortable talking about things like advanced directives or what kind of eulogy he might like, or if he wanted a harpist or organ music at his service.

When we did our estate planning, he opted for cremation, so that’s what I did. And when I asked him what kind of service he might want on our way home from the attorney’s office, he said, “I don’t care. Just make sure it’s not depressing.” That wasn’t much to go on, but I think he would have been pleased.

We rented out a lovely arts center near our home, a Mediterranean villa with colorful gardens and a fountain that caught the sunlight as the droplets flew off its plume. It’s a testament to Andrew’s surgical skill that so many of his patients showed up, and a fair number of his colleagues. Malcolm Lang and his wife. Jason Whittaker and his son. Kelsey lives in the Bay Area now, but she was out of town, so she sent flowers, although I asked everyone not to. I didn’t invite any other friends, mostly because I don’t have many. At least not anymore.

There was a short blessing by a priest, since Andrew was raised Catholic, but no eulogy. “Andrew only had one request,” I told everyone. “That it not be depressing.” I offered some words of praise. World-class surgeon. Wonderful father. Loving husband, trying not to choke on that last one. Then I instructed everyone to go inside. “Eat, drink, and be merry,” I said. “Doctor’s orders.”

But as I caught sight of Trina sobbing in my mother’s arms, I was overcome with emotion, which caught me totally off guard. My eyes watered, but I held it together. Noah fought back his tears, but his face ached with sadness. At that moment, he reminded me of my father. Stoic, and I thought about my dad and how much better it would be for Noah if he were alive, to fill the void.

I hugged my children and comforted them, and in spite of my request to the guests, the tears flowed. Regardless of how things were between my husband and me, he was the father of my children, and they’ll never have another one as long as they live. I know how that feels, and it still hurts. I wonder if things could have turned out differently, if Andrew had made better choices. If I had. If we’d stuck with counseling. I guess we’ll never know.

We’re at my house. My mother is a regular visitor these days. I don’t mind it that much, because she and Trina are close, and I know my daughter needs that right now. Plus, I need the support. I ended my radiology assignment in Sunnyvale to focus on my family. Everyone was supportive. The kids started counseling, but I haven’t seen much of a difference in either of them.

“Trina went back to school this week,” I tell my mother. “She’s trying to catch up with her schoolwork. At least it’s still near the beginning of the semester. She has time, and the workload is not that bad freshman year. But when she gets home, she goes straight to her room. She doesn’t want to eat.”

Mother rolls her eyes. “Make her eat, Monica. It’s not your job to be her friend. You’re her mother. You know what’s best for her.”

My mind flashes to those nights spent at the dinner table, choking down my cold food. I suppose in my mother’s eyes, she was doling out the tough love I needed. The tough love I refuse to use on my kids.

“She acts the way she does toward you because she lacks respect for you, Monica. You’ve allowed yourself to be a doormat.”

Letting out a huff, I implore her to stop badgering me. “Mom! Please! Not now.”

After a few minutes of glorious silence, she asks, “And how’s Noah?”

“He’s about the same.”

Unlike Trina, my son has had almost no emotional reaction to the death of his father. His therapist thinks he’s still in some kind of shock, or denial. I told her that Noah just needs time to process everything that’s happened, and I instructed her not to push him. I do wonder what both of them are saying in those therapy sessions, though. I’m sure she’s not telling me everything, and my attorney’s query burns in my mind.

What would they say if they had to take the stand?

Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

“Let me make us some lunch,” Mother says. “You need to eat. Keep up your strength.”

I don’t argue.

She leaves me alone with my thoughts and heads into the kitchen.

Now that I don’t have my burner phone, I have no idea if Ben is trying to get a hold of me. My attorney took it. She turned it over to the police, after her investigator went through it to see if he could find anything useful.

This makes me very nervous, the fact that I have no idea what he’s thinking. Jennifer told me that she texted Ben and told him the phone was going to be turned over to the police, and that I didn’t want to be contacted again. After that, he stopped trying to reach me, but it doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying to see me in person. I was better off when I could see it coming.

I take out the photos again, the ones that were delivered to me a few nights before Andrew was run down. There are two photos of him, in a hotel room. He is lying on a bed in his boxers, touching himself. His eyes are closed, and from the look on his face, he is enjoying it. Perhaps this was a game they were playing. People like to take photos of each other. Videos.

I wonder who she is.

A prostitute? A fling?

Was she planning to blackmail us?

Then I take another look at the third photo. I see a woman with a busted nose. Her eyes are swollen. Black and blue and purple. The photo is low quality. Grainy. But there’s something in those eyes that looks familiar to me. Something that tells me I know her from somewhere. Then I read what she wrote:

Your husband did this to me.

He’s not who you think he is.

I know I should give all this to my attorney. But how would it look, if I thought my husband was cheating? If I thought he beat up the woman he was cheating with? It would look like I had a motive to kill him, that’s how it would look.

Right now, the attorney is on my side. I’m not sure how she’d feel if she saw these photos. And if they find them without my telling them, I’ll be in a much worse position.

I decide to keep this to myself, for now. I think I can spin it, if it comes to that. Things have been quiet as far as the police, but there’s been a lot of chatter on social media about my husband and me. I can always claim that I brushed this off as just another crackpot scam, figuring the photos were fake.

But I know that is wishful thinking.

I’m sure the photos are real.

My hope is that this investigation blows over. The police rule Andrew’s death an accidental hit and run. We all go on with our lives, like my mother did after the home invasion. And I realize that the one person I can trust in all of this is my mother. She will know what to do. So, I decide to take a calculated risk.

Mother has fixed us a couple of salads, sprinkled with beans and cheese and croutons. It’s perfect, actually. For the first time in a long while, I’m grateful for her help, and her company. We sit, and I eat. At first, I’m quiet.

Then, about halfway into the meal, I say to her, “There’s something I didn’t tell the attorney, Mom. And I’m not sure if I should.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

CHARLOTTE

It’s been a week since Andrew Decker’s death. A week since Dante left my apartment, and my hope is that he has taken the money he stole from me and gone back to Florida. I don’t know where else he could be.

Meanwhile, I’m planning my next steps. I need to move somewhere cheap. Somewhere I can get an under-the-radar IT job, working from home. I’ve given my two-weeks’ notice at work, and I have one week left. I figured I’d call attention to myself if I didn’t show up, but I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for someone to come and haul me off in handcuffs.

I think about my role in this. What I’ve done so far. I’ve been careful, except for the part about involving Dante. I didn’t do anything illegal, unless you count catfishing, which isn’t prosecutable unless you try to get money from someone, which I did not.

Once I got settled in the Bay Area, it wasn’t that hard to find her or keep track of what she was doing. I had her home address. When she worked from home, it was hard to make progress. But once she got the temporary position at Sunnyvale Medical Center, I was able to get more information by spying on her in the lounge or the cafeteria. I had a good reason to be there in case anyone asked, because I was a pharmaceutical representative with business cards, and good at thinking on my feet.

At first, I just followed Monica around. I watched her. I saw what she was doing on her computer. I noticed that she lived a lot of her life online. Chat rooms. Support groups. She’d sneak off into a corner of the hospital where she thought nobody was looking.

Except that someone was looking. I found out how unhappy she was. I knew her perfect life online was a sham, but I figured her for the type who was never satisfied. I had to get closer. I had to know more.

Monica joined a support group for spouses of workaholics. This annoyed me. Here she was, with money coming out of her ears and a successful, sexy surgeon husband, and she was complaining about it?

At first, I joined the support group to learn more about her. What made her tick. What her vulnerabilities were. To get close to her, I invented Ben, an attractive but not too attractive guy, a sympathetic ear to bend. Intentionally, I crafted a persona unlike her husband. Someone who was sensitive and caring, exactly what she lacked at home.

Over time, Monica started to open up to me. At first, she sounded like a whiny rich woman, complaining about how her husband spent too little time with the kids. How she had to do everything for her children, and compete with the professional moms who didn’t work while she juggled a career and family. Rich people problems, I thought.

Of course, Ben was supportive, as he would be, validating her grievances. I sucked her in even more. But then she shared information about her husband’s anger problem. I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. The person who had ruined my life by falsely painting my father as an abuser was staying with a man who had anger issues? What a hypocrite she was.

I asked if he’d ever gotten physical with her. She claimed he had not. This made me skeptical of her motivations and her version of the truth. Maybe she just wanted out of the marriage. Maybe Andrew Decker had reasons to be angry with his prissy little wife.

So, I egged her on. Prodded her a little. Got her thinking about what would happen if that husband of hers were to snap. I suggested we take our conversations out of the chatroom.

She suggested burner phones.

She took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Went down a rabbit hole, because I lured her there. And then I got the idea that I could really screw with her head. Get her to divorce Andrew by giving her proof that he was a cheater and an abuser. Send those photos to her of Andrew at the hotel, and one of me with my face busted up from years ago. After what he did in the hospital, the timing was perfect. First I’d send them to her, then to the media and to his workplace. Humiliate her and her family. Leave her with nobody, like she had done to me.

The icing on the cake would be Ben.

Finding out he did not exist.

Finding out that she’d been played. That she was in love with a druggie, who looked like a homeless man. She’d be so confused. And that was my fatal mistake. Involving my brother. Using him like that. I should have simply ghosted her. It all would have been fine, and I would have gotten away with it.

Still, there’s no need to panic. I’m one step ahead of everyone. A week from now, I’ll be a new person, in a new state. As an added benefit, my brother will be out of my life for good.

My father was right. I can’t let him drag me down.

I need to let the past go.

All of it.

I’ve evened the score.

It’s time to leave the past behind.

THIRTY-EIGHT

MONICA

A knock on the door startles me. I’ve been on edge lately.

Peeking out the window, I see a man wearing a blue blazer over a pair of tan khakis. His clothing looks low-budget, and my stomach sinks.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

I’m not surprised when he flashes me a badge and says, “I’m Detective Grant Stephens. May I come in?”

I was instructed not to talk to the authorities without my attorney present. I know I should say no. But somehow, my instincts tell me that if I close the door in his face, this will only cause him to be more suspicious of me. So, I ask him in.

“Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee, maybe?”

He shrugs. “Coffee would be nice. Black, please.”

I wonder what prompted this visit. When I get into the kitchen to grab his coffee, I text my attorney and let her know that a detective is here. I figure if she thinks it’s prudent, she’ll come over. I turn on the ringer and tuck the phone into my pants pocket. It’s only eight in the morning, but thankfully I’m presentable. A blouse and slacks, because I have an appointment at Noah’s school later in the day.

We turned over the burner phone to the police. They know about Ben and my online flirtation. The whole world knows. So why is he here? Jennifer, my attorney, assured me that there was nothing in the text streams to indicate that I actually wanted Ben to kill my husband. It was better that we give them a viable suspect, she said. It was better if they viewed me as a damsel in distress, afraid of this mystery man I know as Ben.

And I really hope she knows what she’s doing.

Officer Stephens sits on my sofa, and I take the armchair diagonal to him. Then I hand him his mug of coffee and place mine on an end table. The last thing I need is more coffee. My nerves are on edge as it is. But I figured it was best to be social and join him. Make it feel like a friendly chat.

“We’ve uncovered some new information,” he says. “Camera footage, from the night your husband was killed.”

“I see,” I say. “That’s good, right? I mean, are you any closer to figuring out who did this to him?”

He doesn’t answer. “I’m afraid this is now a homicide investigation,” he says. “And the man who attacked your husband in the ER has an alibi and is no longer a suspect.”

My pulse ticks up a notch.

What do they know?

“Someone did this to him? Someone ran him down?” Resting my head in my hand, I add, “Oh my God, do you think my family is in danger? Do you think it was my stalker? The man who catfished me?”

“We’re exploring all angles, Dr. Decker. But I have to ask you. Where were you at eight-thirty p.m. on Wednesday, the night your husband was killed?” he asks.

“I was here,” I say. “At home, with my children.”

“Can they corroborate your statement?”

My children.

I wanted to leave them out of this.

But what choice do I have?

And now I realize I should have politely told the detective to make an appointment with me and my attorney. I’m a suspect, or at least a person of interest. Of course. I’m the spouse. They can’t prove that I put Ben up to this, but I can’t prove that I didn’t. There’s no hard evidence, sure. But juries love to fry rich people.

“We were all home that night.”

“And you were with them? That entire night? In the same room?”

“We were in the same house,” I offer. “My car was here.”

He jots something down on his notepad.

Then he says, “Dr. Decker? Was your husband having an affair?”

Those photos.

Were they leaked?

Are they all over social media, and I’m the last to know?

“I’m not saying anything more without an attorney. If I’m not under arrest, I’d like you to, kindly, please leave my home. Nothing personal, of course.” I smile, in an attempt to look charming and hope it doesn’t come off as smug.

He smirks. “Nothing personal on my end either, but we’ll do this down at the station.”

THIRTY-NINE

MONICA

Two hours later, we are, in fact, down at the station with my attorney. We are in an interview room, not an interrogation room. It’s not that bad. Like a small office. Not too intimidating, but a little cramped.

“My client has been nothing but cooperative,” Jennifer Starkey says. “This is bordering on harassment.”

Detective Stephens dismisses her allegation. “It was a simple question. Routine, when a spouse has been killed. Was your husband having an affair? But then she asked for you, and here we are. I’d say that this is the County of San Mateo giving your client what she is constitutionally entitled to. Pretty much the opposite of harassment.”

“You don’t know that it was a homicide,” she throws out.

“Actually, we do. We have security footage to that effect.”

“You’re bluffing,” she says. “And even if you’re not, unless it’s my client’s car, you’ve got nothing that implicates her. If you did, you would have arrested her.”

“I’m trying to solve the murder of your client’s husband. I would think she’d want to be as cooperative as possible. Why isn’t she being more cooperative?”

Looking to Jennifer, she seems to have no good answer, so I turn to the detective and say, “I want to be cooperative, but I was instructed to say nothing without my attorney present. But I’d like to answer your question.”

“I don’t think that’s⁠—”

“Noted, Counselor. But this is my decision.”

“Go on,” the detective says.

Choosing my words very carefully, I say, “To my knowledge, my husband has never slept with another woman in the entire time we have been married. I can take a lie detector test and you can ask me the same question, if that’s what it takes for you to believe what I’m saying. But with all of the publicity we’ve gotten, first with the hospital incident and now with the hit and run, there’s been a great deal of chatter on social media. I get emails, too, from random people. Some think I’m a murderer. Some think Andrew was a hero. People are out to get us. Out to get me, so don’t believe everything you hear.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Nobody I know.”

“Would you be willing to turn over your computer and your cell phone?”

Jennifer shoots back. “Would you be willing to get a warrant?”

“I’m not stupid, Detective. No, I will not turn over my devices without a warrant, because there is nothing notable on my devices or in my email account that will help you find this Ben person and keep him from doing something drastic. We know that, in all likelihood, he did this. He’s mentally unstable, and he killed my husband because of some delusional fantasy he had that we could be together if Andrew was out of the way. Find him, before he comes after me or my children.”

Rubbing his chin, Detective Stephens pauses for a moment, staring off, like something important has occurred to him.

My attorney says, “My client has given you more than enough. And we’re leaving now.”

“Wait,” he says. “This man was unstable. Delusional, even. And how long have you two been in communication?”

Shrugging, I say, “About two months.”

“And you never suspected that something was off about him?”

“No. He seemed… interesting. Clever. Well read. We shared similar tastes and interests. In books. In film. But now that you mention it, his tone became a little more urgent, the last few times we communicated. I figured it was because of the hospital incident. That he felt more strongly that I was in danger, after Andrew pummeled the man in the ER. Or perhaps he went off his meds, and his condition deteriorated.”

The detective nods. “But there’s another possible explanation,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“Maybe he wasn’t the same person who catfished you. Maybe it was someone else, and that person hired this man to play the part of Ben.”

“To what end?” I ask. “What would anyone have to gain?”

“I don’t know. But is there anyone you can think of who might be out to get you? Anyone who has a grudge against you?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Any new people in your life? Any strange encounters?”

My mind flashes to the woman who called herself Shari Bukowski. That day in the cafeteria, I sensed that there was something off about her. And when I flash on the photo of that battered woman, there is something about those eyes, although it’s very grainy, I can’t make out the color.

Could Shari, this woman from my residency days, have been behind it all? Could she have been the person who lured Andrew to the hotel? This woman I can’t quite place? But until I’m certain, I decide it’s best to say nothing.

“Not that I can think of,” I say.

“Go back through your patient files. Maybe it’s something to do with your professional rather than your personal life.”

“I’ll do that,” I say. “Now, are you going to provide some protection for my family? Do you believe me, that this man is dangerous?”

“We don’t have that kind of budget, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere else you could stay? With a family member, maybe?”

My mother has much better security than I do, but we’d drive each other mad. Still, she lives in Atherton, not far from both of my kids’ schools. I could have Trina and Noah stay there, at least until we know more, I say, and they agree.

Because if he’s going to strike, he’ll do it soon. And if he does, I’ll take care of it, and eliminate this threat to my family once and for all.

For now, I thank Detective Grant Stephens.

He seems satisfied for now, but I wonder.

How long do I have before this all blows up in my face?

FORTY

MONICA

Noah’s public elementary school is one of the best in the country. It’s so good that it’s almost like a pricey private school. The student-teacher ratios are low. The buildings are new. The technology is state-of-the-art. This is made possible not only by our hefty property taxes, but also by the millions of dollars in generous donations to the parent foundation, headed by Leslie Foreman, one of the “professional moms” and the wife of a prominent venture capitalist, who up until today, I’ve given a wide berth.

Over the years, I’ve given a token amount of money to the foundation, but not in proportion to my family’s wealth. People assume because my mother has money, then I also do. People around here have expectations, and I continually fail to live up to them. I don’t volunteer as much as some of the other parents, because even though I only work part time, many of them don’t work at all, and they can devote themselves to their children.

Today, I have to meet with the principal, because of an “incident” between Noah and Leslie Foreman’s son Troy this morning. I’m not sure what happened, but they can make mountains out of molehills. I know a woman whose son got called in for hugging a girl and making her feel “uncomfortable.” Seriously, these administrators have too much time on their hands.

So hopefully, it’s nothing too troubling, but I have a sinking feeling it might be something worse than hugging. Noah’s been distant. Cranky. He’s not himself, and I can’t say that I blame him. Knocking on the door, I steel myself and prepare to put my worries about prison and my dead husband aside and be there for Noah.

“Have a seat,” Principal Emily Sanders says.

She’s young, relatively new, with something to prove. She looks uncomfortable in her own skin, like she needs to grow into the corner office she now inhabits. This isn’t good. She’ll be intimidated by the parents like Leslie Foreman, eager to please. She was vice principal at a lower-tier school, and this job is a big step up for her.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Dr. Decker,” she says. “And I know this is a terrible time to put an additional burden on you. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Thank you, Dr. Sanders,” I say.

She’s a doctor of education, which is hardly the same thing as an MD, but I want to flatter her, and so far, it’s going better than I expected. And why wouldn’t it? They must know that losing your father in that way is traumatic. Perhaps they’ll go easy on Noah, whatever this is about.

Taking a deep breath, she says, “I’m afraid Noah struck Troy Foreman,” she says. “Sorry if this comes as a shock, but I don’t know how else to put it. And we know that your son is processing everything that happened. But we can’t let something like this go, even under these extenuating circumstances.”

“Was Troy hurt?” I ask.

“No, just frightened. Noah didn’t punch him. It was more of a shove.”

“I need some context. Noah would not do this for no reason,” I point out. “I know my son. There must be a reason.”

She shrugs. “I’m sure there was. Kids can be mean. But violence is never a proper response to a verbal taunt.”

My stomach sinks.

Violence?

She thinks my son is violent?

“Have you interviewed the boys?” I ask.

“Sort of,” she says. “But not extensively. We wanted to bring Noah in while you were here, given how delicate the situation is. I sent him to the school counselor, but he refused to talk about it.”

“What did Troy say happened?”

“Troy said he was talking to Noah about what happened to his dad, and Noah got upset. And part of that is on us. We did talk to the kids in Noah’s class about not prying. But Troy and Noah were on the playground together before school started, and we hadn’t briefed the whole school. That’s since been taken care of. Please understand. We don’t want to punish Noah. We want to get him the help that he needs.”

I tell her that he’s in therapy. She says that’s good.

And then the door opens.

Noah shuffles in, escorted by a teacher’s aide, who is instructed to wait outside. He sits beside me, his head hanging low. I put an arm around him, pull him toward me, and kiss him on the head. He looks up at me, as if waiting for some direction.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Just tell us your side of the story.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Noah?” Principal Sanders says. “I’m sorry about what happened to your dad. We know you’re upset about that. And that’s normal. But talking about your feelings can help. If you keep it all inside, the sad feelings can be overwhelming. It can make you even more upset.”

“It’s not about my dad!” Noah thunders. “I’m not upset about my dad!”

“Noah. Look at me,” I say. “Of course you are upset about your dad. Anyone would be.”

“No, Mom.” Noah shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. I was mad at Troy for what he said about you, not for what he said about Dad.”

“About me? What did he say about me?”

Noah hesitates.

Principal Sanders says, “Noah. It’s okay. You can tell us.”

My son looks at me. “He called you a black widow, Mom. And I didn’t know what it was. Then he said ‘it’s a woman who kills her husband for money, stupid.’ So, I shoved him. He shouldn’t call me stupid. I’m not stupid.”

A look of shock flashes across the principal’s face, and then she catches herself. “You’re right, Noah. He should not call you stupid, and he should not have said that about your mother. It’s terrible, and I’m so sorry. But we still can’t have you putting your hands on another student. What could you have done, instead of shoving Troy?” she asks.

Noah shrugs. “Tell my mom?”

“Telling your mom would be a great solution to that problem. Now, you can go join your class, and I’ll follow up with your mother.”

After Noah leaves, she says, “Given the circumstances, we won’t suspend him. But I am mandating weekly check-ins with the school counselor.”

“Sure,” I say. “And Troy Foreman? What will happen to that little… troublemaker?”

“I’ll talk to his mother,” she says.

“A lot of good that will do. Where do you think he heard the term black widow?”

In all fairness, I was just down at the police station, but they didn’t know about that early this morning. She tries to placate me, suggesting that it was probably social media, not the parent gossip mill.

I wave her off and get up to leave. “I have a job,” I say. “And a family crisis to deal with. I don’t have time for this nonsense. But that talk you gave to the children? Maybe you can give it to their parents. Welcome to the big leagues, Dr. Sanders. Good luck.”

Turning on my heel, I storm out of her office and head straight out to my car, not bothering to care about how it might look. Not bothering to acknowledge anyone on my way.

When I get into the driver’s seat, I fumble with the key fob, struggling to figure out how to start up the car, because my stupid key fob battery is dying. I broke a nail trying to dig out the back-up key and open my car door, and now I can’t even start up my own damn car I’m so flummoxed.

Pounding the passenger seat with my fist, I let out a primal scream, one that’s sure to be heard outside my closed windows.

Then I crumble into a ball and sob.

A knock on my window startles me.

My face is streaked with tears, which I attempt to wipe away. I hold the fob closer to the ignition and press the button. Thankfully, there’s enough juice left in the fob to start the car, and I vow to replace the battery as soon as I get home.

“Monica? Are you alright?” a familiar voice says.

I lower my window.

“Kelsey. What are you doing here?”

“I live here now. Remember? I’ve been trying to get you to hang with me for the last year and a half.”

“Yes, but you don’t have kids. I mean, why are you here, here? Near the school?”

“The school is across from the coffee shop I like. What’s with the third degree? And what’s with the hysterics? Did someone steal your lunch money?”

The corners of my mouth lift a little, in spite of myself. “My stupid key fob battery died,” I say. “You know how that can set a person off.”

“Oh shit, yeah. I hate that. Have you ever tried to replace one of those suckers? I nearly sliced my finger off on the childproof packaging.”

I let out a chuckle, but she’s not wrong about that. I nearly did the same thing.

“You look like you could use a friend. Coffee?” she asks.

“Not today. But how about later this week?”

“I’m not letting you off that easy. Give me a day and a time, and I’ll make it a priority.”

“This Thursday? Is nine too early? I could come after I drop Noah at school.”

“Thursday at nine is great,” Kelsey says. “Looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” I reply.

And for the first time in a long while, I mean it. I could use a friend right now, especially one who can put a smile on my face after the morning I had. But first I have to figure out who’s really out to get me, besides Ben and the Menlo Park gossip mill.

And I have to find out why.

FORTY-ONE

MONICA

I know I’m getting somewhere, as far as figuring this all out. So far, I have a photo of a woman with a busted-up face, who very well could be the woman who calls herself Shari Bukowski. I know that’s not her real name. She told me that we met during my residency, and she seemed to imply that she was also a resident, but I could have misinterpreted what she said.

She knew about Andrew. That we’d been together since that time. Whatever she has against me, it goes pretty far back. I have the photos of Andrew, at the hotel. My husband seemed to think she was some kind of hooker scam artist, but she didn’t steal anything from him. She never blackmailed him. Instead, she gave the photos to me.

She wanted to screw with me, I conclude. Mess up my marriage. It fits that she would also catfish me. Make me fall for some mystery man named Ben. Get my hopes up and then crush them. My mother made a good point. There could be camera footage of the woman if we could figure out what hotel they were at, and when, but I never did get that nugget of detail from Andrew. If she’d sent them digitally, there would be geodata. That’s why she gave me actual photos.

She must be clever, and I wonder why she even approached me. If she hadn’t done that, I never would have put two and two together. Does she want me to know it’s her?

The only way I can solve this is to go through my cases. I kept notebooks from my residency years. So, I pull them out, and I start reading. Month by month. Case by case.

Until I get to the one case that ties it all together.

“Her real name is Charlotte Sanderson,” I tell my mother. We’re at my house, sitting at the dining room table with the photos she gave me spread out on the table. “It’s the eyes. The slate blue color, and the shape. I recognize her eyes, from that night and the photo. It looks like she had a nose job somewhere along the way, but it’s the same person. I’m sure of it.”

I go on to explain what happened that night. How her mother came in with injuries that looked like those of a battered woman. That her father was arrested, and that my chief resident dressed me down for meddling in the case.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I say. “But maybe there was a bigger picture.”

Mother rolls her eyes. “You’ve always had a problem with authority figures, Monica. I’m glad to hear it’s not just me.”

Ouch.

But picking a fight with my mother is not what I need right now.

I tell her I don’t know too much about Charlotte Sanderson, whose name is now Charlotte Fairbanks. She’s divorced. Seems to have moved from Florida to California about three months ago. Her ex-husband’s photos were used to catfish me.

“I still have no idea why she’d come after me now, after all this time. I don’t know what the trigger was. But she has a brother. Dante Sanderson. That could be Ben, but I can’t find any photos of him. It would make sense. The mother had mental health issues. He could have inherited her condition. Should we give all this to the police?”

Mother shakes her head. “Not yet. Let me give this to my investigator. See what he can come up with. In the meantime, I’ll keep the kids with me. Keep the gun close. If this Ben or Dante or whoever he is plans to come after you, he’ll do it soon. Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us?”

Shaking my head, I tell her no. “He’s after me. I’ll only put the kids at risk if we’re all together. I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about me, just look out for Trina and Noah.”

FORTY-TWO

CHARLOTTE

I’ve just finished my last day at work, and I’m ready to leave town. I travel light through life. Most of my possessions I left with Brian when we got divorced. It wasn’t his fault. I’m just not cut out for married life. What I have now fits into two suitcases. I plan to ditch my car near the train station, and head south.

Dante is gone. My parents are gone. There’s nothing tying me to my family. Nothing anchoring me to my old life. It feels good, really. To be free of the burden. Money will be tight, but I’m a survivor.

Heading to my front door, I take a glance around the apartment for anything I’ve missed. Then I open the front door, step outside, and head to the parking lot.

He comes out of nowhere.

“Not so fast, Charlotte.”

He’s wearing a dark blue blazer, and I see the barrel of a gun poking out of it. “We’re going for a little ride in my car. Don’t scream. A friend of mine wants to meet with you. Don’t do anything stupid, and you won’t get hurt. Got it?”

Nodding my head yes, I do as he says.

“Smile,” he says. “Act like you know me.”

“Hi,” I say, as my voice goes up an octave. “Thanks for coming to get me. My car is… ah, on the blink.”

Almost in a whisper, he says, “You’re doing great, Charlotte. You’re gonna be just fine.”

He opens the passenger door. I get in.

There’s another man in the seat behind me, who I assume is also armed.

My escort takes the driver seat.

I keep my gaze straight ahead.

At first, I thought it was the FBI, or some other law enforcement agency, trying to rattle me. But now I know it’s something much worse.

Who are these people?

What do they want from me?

She has shoulder-length brown hair and looks younger than she probably is. I recognize her from my background research. She’s Kathleen Warner, Monica’s mother. We are at some kind of warehouse, near the water. There is a rusted metal table flanked by two folding chairs. The man with the gun motions to the chairs and stays standing.

She and I sit, across from one another.

“You’re a clever young woman, Charlotte,” Kathleen Warner says. “I’ve done my homework on you. But not clever enough.”

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

“Where’s your brother?” she says.

“I… I don’t know. I swear. He’s unstable. I think he’s using again. He stole money from me. About two grand in cash. His cell is dead. He may have left town, but I can’t be sure.”

“Did he run down my son-in-law?”

Shrugging, I say, “I think so. But if he did, he didn’t use my car. I had it with me during the time it happened. I was still doing sales calls. But I didn’t know he was going to do that. I swear, it’s not what I wanted. I just wanted to…”

“Ruin my daughter’s marriage? Ruin my daughter’s life?”

I nod.

“Why?”

I decide that my only option is to tell her the truth. I tell her about that night at the hospital, over a decade ago. How it wasn’t my father’s fault. That her daughter sent me home to live with an unstable mentally ill mother. About how I tried to move on, but how the pain became fresh when my dad got sick and the hospital in Reno called me to come. How his death brought my anger back. How I moved here to stalk her. How she started to open up to me about her husband’s anger issues. How I wanted to expose that to the world.

“She took my father from me,” I say. “Falsely accusing him of being an abuser. And she seemed like such a hypocrite, staying with her husband. Maybe I did her a favor,” I offer. “That husband of hers had a temper. Maybe you should be thanking me.”

She eyes me as the corners of her mouth lift, like I’ve amused her. Then her face turns serious. “Tell me about your brother. We need to know what he might do next. I have to protect my daughter. If you lie to me. If you know where he is and you don’t tell me, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

I tell her everything about him that I can think of. I have no loyalty to him. How I went to live with him in Florida. How he got progressively worse. What meds he’s on. What street drugs he takes. The way he showed up in California, asking for money. The way he ranted in my apartment that Monica was ignoring him, then curled into a ball. How I drugged him and he went to sleep, and then I went to get supplies, so I could leave town.

“But he must have been faking some of it,” I say. “Because I gave him a double dose of benzo, on top of his other meds, but I found one of the pills on the floor. When I got back from running errands, he was gone. He took all my cash, and my switchblade. For some reason, he double-crossed me.”

“Do you think he’s coming for my daughter?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. He’s never been violent, but he seems to be decompensating. If I were you, I’d be on the lookout, at least for a few weeks. Then his money will run out. He’ll have to leave.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“Not that I know of. He couldn’t get one legally with his history, and illegal weapons are expensive. It would use up all his cash.”

“So, you have no idea where your brother is?” she asks, once again.

Squaring my shoulders, looking her straight in the eye, I tell her, “No. And I don’t care where Dante is. That’s why I’m leaving town. Look. I have fake ID.” I hand it over to her.

She chuckles, then tosses it down on the table. “Your dye job is pathetic,” she says. “And so is this ID. Where did you get it? Seven-Eleven?”

I’m not sure if she means the ID or the hair dye, but she’s right. I used a henna rinse, and it didn’t quite take. I look like a half-drowned mouse. “My car is packed. I’ve quit my job. Given up my apartment. He’s just like my mother, and I’m sick of it. It was a big mistake, involving him in this. And I regret it.”

“Charlotte. I have one more question. Did my son-in-law really beat you up?”

“No,” I admit. “But the photo was real. My mother did that, once my father wasn’t around to protect me. It’s just, after what Monica shared with me, I really thought Andrew Decker was dangerous for your daughter. I wasn’t just saying it. I know this sounds weird, but Monica and Ben? Or I mean, the person I invented as Ben? We had a connection. She opened up to me. And in my opinion, it was just a matter of time before things got worse.”

“Do you regret what happened to my son-in-law?”

“That’s not on me,” I say. “That’s on my brother.”

A sly smile curls up her face. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t regret it either.”

“Then what do you want?” I ask.

“What do you want, Charlotte?” she counters.

This time, I don’t hesitate. “I want to start over, and I want to never worry about money again, as long as I live.”

“That can be arranged,” she says.

And then she makes me an offer.

Two million dollars. But not all at once. I’ll have a monthly allotment, so she knows I’ll keep up my end of the bargain. In a numbered offshore account. I think about Beverly, and her comment about net worth. I didn’t exactly follow her plan, but she was right about that. With two million dollars, I’ll be set for life, unless this is all bullshit and they decide to kill me.

“You’ll use the ID we got for you, once we lighten your hair. The ID you have would never have held up. We will keep tabs on you, because we know your new name. And if you ever tell anyone about this meeting or me, we’ll implicate you. We’ll find you. We’ll pin the murder of Andrew Decker on you. Right now, there’s a clean explanation for my son-in-law’s murder. My daughter was catfished by an unstable man who killed her husband. He vanished when he realized she reported him to the police. Clean is good, for all of us. We know you were involved, but the police don’t. Not yet. If you keep quiet, you can leave here before they figure it out. Start your new life, preferably in a different country, and don’t look back. Does that sound like something you can do?”

Checkmate.

“Yes. That sounds like something I can do.”

It sounds like something I’ve wanted to do for a long time now.

And I have to laugh at the irony of the situation.

All those years ago, Monica Decker wanted to be my savior.

And as it turns out, she is.

FORTY-THREE

MONICA

When I was fifteen, my brother Ethan sustained a head injury playing soccer. He was seventeen, starting his senior year of high school. Football gets a bad rap. Everyone knows that football is dangerous. Traumatic brain injury. You read on the news all the time about this famous player or that one, and how the repeated pounding ruined their lives. Caused them to turn violent. Turned them into domestic abusers, or simply turned their brains to mush.

But soccer concussions are also very common, and with no head protection, they can sometimes be worse. Ethan’s was bad. Bad enough that he blacked out. Bad enough that he went to the ER and got it checked out. But not bad enough for an ambulance.

It’s pretty much standard procedure to start with a CT scan, non-contrast. And that’s exactly what the ER team did. And when the scan came back marked “no acute bleed,” we all breathed a collective sigh of relief. It turned out there was a small spot on that scan, but it was missed by everyone, including the radiologist.

My parents received the standard instructions for a concussed teenager. Let the school know what happened. Get his teachers to back off. Tell Ethan not to engage in any intensive concentration. Put off big exams and papers. Rest. And, of course, don’t play soccer.

So that was that, and life went on.

About halfway through college, when I was in my senior year of high school, Ethan started to have headaches, or what the college infirmary thought were migraines. They made him nauseous. He went on medication, for the migraines and for the nausea. He didn’t tell our parents, because he wanted to finish out the school year. But when he came home over spring break, my mother grew concerned when he mentioned a headache. He had no fever.

My mother insisted that he go to the ER later that day when he got dizzy, thinking that possibly he had an ear infection. It seemed like overkill to me, but she claimed that urgent care doctors didn’t know what they were doing, so she insisted on the ER. It happened to be the same hospital he went to as a teenager, and when the ER attending was looking over the films from a few years back, he noticed a spot on the old scan, from the day of his head injury. One that had been missed.

Out of an abundance of caution, the doctor ordered an MRI with contrast. My father suggested he was just going overboard. Kissing up a little, because my family were generous donors and this was their son, and he told my mother not to worry. But my mother said she had a bad feeling. And when the MRI results came back, the doctor’s fears and my mother’s instincts were confirmed. The spot they saw a few years back had been a low-grade glioma—but it had mushroomed into a full-blown glioblastoma, which was way worse.

A giant one.

An inoperable one.

For the first year or two, Ethan fought valiantly through radiation and chemo, and for a while, it seemed like he would beat it. But then it came back, more than once. And the last time he fought a little, but not much. He gave up, eventually, although he lingered on for a while longer. But his fight was gone. The brother I knew faded away. And six months after I moved to New Jersey for Andrew’s fellowship, Ethan died. He was twenty-seven. I was twenty-five, married to Andrew, and an only child.

We didn’t have a big wedding. Just a pop-in to the town hall, followed by a quiet catered dinner at my parents’ home. I was close with my brother. I didn’t want him to miss out. He made it to the dinner, and that meant the world to him. He perked up a little that day, and it was the last time I saw a smile on his face.

It was during senior year, after they found the inoperable tumor, that I decided that I wanted to be a radiologist. I wanted to make sure what happened to Ethan didn’t happen to anyone else. My parents were dead set against my being a doctor, and I never asked them why. It’s too late to ask my father, but someday, perhaps I’ll ask my mother. I thought it was because she wanted grandchildren, and a career in medicine would hold me back. As it turned out, she was wrong about that. I got pregnant the first year of our marriage.

Ethan is on my mind today. Maybe because I’m going to meet Kelsey for coffee, at her insistence. She got me through the high school part, but by the time Ethan died, we had lost touch. My brother was gone. I was away from my family. My friends. I was an easy mark for Andrew’s manipulation, and it feels good to be reconnecting with my past.

“How’s things with the Mommies of Menlo Park?” Kelsey asks, after we get settled at a café table in the coffee shop she likes. It’s on a street corner of our upscale town, with large, wall-to-wall windows and a lovely view of the park across the way. Smooth jazz plays in the background, but I still can’t relax and enjoy it. I just want to get this over with.

“The mommies have been staying out of my way.”

“Well, you’re a badass. They should stay out of your way.”

I force a smile, but my heart’s not in it.

She places a hand on mine. “Sorry. How are you? Really?”

“I’m scared, Kelsey. Terrified. I don’t know where this guy is, or what he’s going to do. I miss my kids. I miss my family.”

“Do you want me to stay with you? Brett would be fine with it. We can only take each other in small doses. I’m not sure this relationship is going to stick.”

Brett is her live-in boyfriend, but maybe not for long, it seems.

“No, I’ll be fine,” I tell her.

I can’t tell her that I’m not fine. That I have my mother’s Glock 42 tucked in my nightstand, but I’m not sure if I could use it on someone. I can’t tell her that even though I know my marriage was toxic, there’s a part of me that still misses Andrew, or who I thought he was, who I hoped he’d be, all those years ago when we met at the hospital. And that I feel pathetic for that.

It’s a strange feeling, meeting up with someone who knew me so well, long ago, but someone who has missed out on the last decade of change and growth. We’ve both changed, yet when we’re together, I feel forced to be the person I was, not the person I am today. It’s disorienting. Not what I need right now.

She’s right, though. I was a badass. Where is the woman who stomped on Bradley Powell’s foot and threatened to run him over? Where did she go?

We go through the motions. Kelsey catches me up on her work and her boyfriend issues, but I realize that right now, I can’t be close to anyone. Not until this is over. Not until I know how this ends.

And as I’m walking to my car, I face the fact that I’m not close to anyone. That there’s no new Kelsey in my life now to turn to. Nobody knows the me I am today.

Because I don’t even recognize myself.

FORTY-FOUR

MONICA

Driving up to my empty home, I miss my children. How long will I need to live like this? It’s been two weeks. He must have left town by now. I don’t even have work to distract me. The days stretch on and on, the minutes feel like hours. Every afternoon, I visit Trina and Noah at my mother’s estate. Every afternoon, I long to bring them back home with me.

Soon.

I can’t live in fear forever.

The garage door opens. I drive inside and turn off my Lexus. As I exit the vehicle, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle a little more than usual. Patting my purse, I reach in and feel for the gun. But looking around, I don’t see anyone, so I leave it where it is. Then I press the code into the alarm system. It was probably my imagination, because he’s been on my mind tonight.

Dante could be anywhere. Mother keeps tabs on his sister. She’s thus far kept her word, and seems to be moving on with her life. When I met her at the hospital that day, back when she was a college kid, she had a strange way about her. A sort of blankness in her eyes, as if she were missing a part of her soul. I can believe that she could walk away from her brother and never look back, and I can’t say I blame her.

But what about Dante?

How far will he go to get what he wants?

It’s dark outside, although it’s not very late. Just past nine. If he came for me, I think he’d do so in the middle of the night, but now that it’s getting darker earlier, I’m on edge more. For some reason, when I come home and it’s still light out, I feel better about entering my home.

That’s probably all this is, I tell myself, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Night jitters. I double-check the locks, rearm the security system for good measure, take a deep breath to steady my nerves, and head upstairs to take a shower.

I’m worried about Noah. He’s kept everything bottled up inside. I need more time alone with him. Trina wears her emotions on her sleeve. With her, I always know how she feels, whether I want to know or not.

Noah is different. More complicated. I think about that fight he picked with the kid in school who taunted him about me. I hope he does not follow in his father’s footsteps. He wasn’t abused, and I believe Andrew’s anger issue was nurture, not nature. Noah is a boy. Boys brawl. It’s probably just a phase, or a reaction to the trauma in his life.

As I prepare to enter the shower, I stop.

A noise caught my attention.

Something is not right.

I heard a creaking sound, like somebody is coming up the stairs.

Or is it my imagination?

I realize that my gun is on my nightstand, in my purse.

Damn it. Why didn’t I listen to my mother?

Wrapping myself in a towel, I dash out of the ensuite bathroom toward the bedroom door. It is partially closed, and I see a hand wrapping around the door frame. I slam it shut, catching his fingers, and he screams out in agony.

“Agghh! What the fuck? I need to see you!” Dante pounds on the door. “Open the fucking door, Monica! NOW!”

I locked the door, but I’ve riled him up even more, and the pain will boost his adrenaline. He’s a tall man, not buff, but he’s got some bulk. He could break the door down. He could get the gun away from me. I need to reason with him. It’s my only chance.

Pleading with him, I say, “I told you! We need to wait. It’s too soon.”

“I’m not waiting. I’m done waiting. My sister left me. I have nobody!” he yells.

Thundering vibrations shake the room.

He’s trying to kick the door down.

I grab the gun from my purse and look around for something to jam under the door handle. As I attempt to jimmy a chair under the handle, the door bursts open.

I spring back just in time, and the chair goes flying.

Dante comes after me, a crazed look in his eye, dressed all in black. He must have followed me into the garage.

He stops when he sees the gun. “Why are you doing this to me?” he says. “Why do I have to wait? I have nowhere else to go.”

Backing away, the gun pointed toward him, I say, “You know I can’t. My husband was run over. I’m a suspect. I need to be careful. We have to wait. There’s no other choice. I don’t want to hurt you. Really, I don’t. But you need to leave my home now, and let me contact you when it’s safe.”

He’s shaking. Sweating. He must be using again. He’s not rational, and that’s a problem for me. He’s desperate. There’s no telling what he might do.

But I’m a healer. Dante is sick. Shooting someone goes against everything I believe. So I try one more time to reason with him. Talk him down.

Then his face hardens, and he pulls out a switchblade. “I’m getting what’s mine, one way or another.”

“Dante!” I cry out, backing away from him to put more distance between us. “I don’t want to hurt you, and you don’t want to hurt me. How will that help? Think about it. If you hurt me, you’ll never get what you want.”

I can see his wheels turning, as if he’s considering that I might have a point.

“Now, put down the knife, and let’s talk,” I say.

He nods, and his arm dips. The knife dangles from his hand, but I keep the gun trained on him, hoping I can get him to leave. Hoping to buy myself some time.

A gunshot rings out.

And then another one.

Dante stares at me, a deer-in-the-headlights expression planted on his face. His body sputters, like a car about to die. Then he drops to the floor with a thud.

Clean shots, not much blood spatter, but some.

Braden, a member of my mother’s security team, stands in the doorway, the gun pointed down. He walks over and kicks at Dante’s body.

Blood begins to ooze from the wounds.

“He was about to drop the knife,” I say, finally finding my words.

“Take it up with your mother,” he says.

Then Braden lowers his weapon, and it’s over.

We sit in my living room as my mother takes charge. Myself, my mother, and two people on the security team, Braden and Thomas. The body is upstairs. Braden helped me get down the stairs, after I threw on a t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. I was still trembling. At first, I could barely move. Now, I’m numb. Not upset. In shock, I tell myself. The shots were so loud, my ears are still ringing. Until tonight, I’d only ever experienced gunshots with ear protection on.

Dante is dead.

I should be feeling something, shouldn’t I?

But I’m not.

I’m confused. Disoriented. I guess that’s what happens, when your life flashes before your eyes. “Mom. How did you… what’s happening?”

“We don’t have time for this, Monica. Please. Be quiet and do as I say. I got rid of the sister, so there’s nobody around to challenge our version of what happened. Listen to me, and it will all be okay. This is easy to explain. Clean, as long as you don’t screw it up. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I nod, because what else can I do?

We craft a story, and then she calls the police. The story is fairly close to what actually happened, except for some creative license toward the end:

Dante didn’t drop the knife.

The gun was not in my hand, because I don’t own a gun.

He was coming for me, brandishing a switchblade, enraged.

Braden told him to stop, but Dante didn’t listen.

Braden had no choice.

He had to shoot Dante.

Twice.

And when the police come, I play my part.

Turning to the officer, I add, “Braden saved my life.”

And it’s true. He did. I guess my mother does have my back after all. And although I feel a heaviness in the pit of my stomach when I think about Dante, I tell myself it will fade. He never would have left town. He would have been a threat to me, forever.

I can get on with my life.

My home is a safe place now.

My kids can finally come home.

FORTY-FIVE

MONICA

Once we get down to the police station, I realize that it’s not that simple.

There’s going to be an investigation, and it seems that my mother is more prepared for this than I am. They will divide us up, she warned. All we have to do is stick with the story. Stick to the script, which is mostly the truth. I suppose it was her experience being under investigation for my dad’s murder that’s made her so cavalier. I wonder what she did with her gun. Our home is a crime scene, and they will search every inch of it, I’m sure.

My attorney, Jennifer Starkey, is with me. We are in one of those interrogation rooms, not an interview room like last time. It’s more intimidating, and feels a little claustrophobic. The furnishings are worn and dirty. The overhead light is distractingly bright. We’re being recorded, and this makes me more afraid about what I might say. How I might trip up. I suppose that’s intentional.

She’s quite effective in painting a sympathetic portrait.

“We warned you that this would happen,” she says. “And my client was nearly killed. Thank goodness this family has the means to protect her.”

Detective Stephens ignores her dig. “Tell me again what happened,” he says to me. “There was no sign of forced entry, so how did he get into the house?”

Shrugging, I tell him, “When I pulled into the garage and got out of my car, I felt… uneasy. I remember stopping, and I got this sensation that I wasn’t alone, but I brushed it off. I think maybe he slipped in while the garage door was open. It’s all I can think of.”

My lawyer adds, “He was dressed in black. That makes sense. She would not have seen him, outside the house.”

“Why did he wait so long to confront you?” he asks.

It’s a good question, and I have no good answer. I’ve wondered about that myself.

“How would she know?” my attorney says.

“In the garage, someone could hear us,” I offer. “And there’s a lock on the garage door. Maybe he needed time to pick it.”

Jennifer shoots me a look that says, Shut up, Monica.

“And then what did you do?” he asks.

“I went inside, after punching in the alarm code, double-checked the locks, and rearmed the security system. Then I went upstairs to take a shower.”

He asks me what happened next, and I explain how I thought I heard the stairs creak. How I dashed out of the bathroom and saw the hand. How I slammed the door shut, catching his fingers.

“Then I tried to barricade the door. But he kicked the door down and pulled a switchblade on me. I thought he was going to kill me. I tried to reason with him.”

“Reason with him?” the detective asks. “About what?”

“He seemed to think there was still a chance we could be together. I told him I needed time. I didn’t know what else to say. He was delusional. I thought if I gave him hope, he’d… I don’t know? Leave? Or at least I could get him to drop the knife. But it only made him angrier. He said I was trying to trick him.”

“So you led him on?” the detective asks.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” I say. “I was trying to stay alive.”

Detective Stephens continues. “He doesn’t seem that delusional to me, if he wasn’t falling for it. So, was he delusional, or wasn’t he?”

Jennifer intervenes. “Stop talking, Monica. She’s not answering any more of your questions about what happened tonight. We’ve been through this more than enough times. You’ve got your murderer. We did your job for you. You should be thanking this family.”

“Yes. Very convenient,” Stephens says. “Maybe a little too convenient. But okay. Let’s switch gears. Did you look any further into your patient files for anyone else who might have had a grudge against you?”

“I did, but nothing stood out. I’m in radiology. I don’t have a lot of direct contact with patients. I don’t give them my findings. I interpret the scans and write them up for the other doctors, and they give the results to the patients. It would be very unlikely, in my specialty, for this to have been a patient or a member of a patient’s family, because they don’t interact with me.”

My attorney stands up. “I think you’ve gotten more than enough from my client. She’s been through a lot.” Turning to me, she says, “Let’s go, Monica.”

We all stand. The point I made about my specialty was a good one. I can tell that the detective thought so. And if they do figure out that Charlotte Sanderson was behind all of this, she’ll never connect back to me. They’ll never be able to prove anything. They’ll think she was in on the scam with her brother. I wasn’t even a doctor back then. I wasn’t assigned to her case. There’s no record that we even knew each other. So, with Dante dead and Charlotte in the wind, they have no evidence against me.

But then I think about the school incident.

Black widow.

That’s what they were calling me. What will they call me now?

Perhaps we should move somewhere else. Start fresh.

We have time, I tell myself.

And now I can bring my kids home.

To a safe home.

It was all worth it.

“When will I be able to go home?” I ask.

“It will take a few days to process the scene,” the detective says. “Do you have somewhere you can stay in the meantime?”

“With my mother,” I tell him.

And I can only hope that my mother and Braden played their parts. That our stories lined up. That Braden doesn’t turn on all of us and try to make a deal.

He killed Dante Sanderson because of me. That will haunt me for the rest of my life.

But at least I have a life ahead of me to live.

And for that, I have my mother to thank.

FORTY-SIX

MONICA

“Why can’t we live with Gramma?” Trina says.

“Because,” I say. “That was temporary. Now please go sort your clothes.”

Trina has been quiet. Sad, not angry. I expected her to lash out at me when she found out about Dante. Blame me for the online affair that killed her father, but she’s barely said a word. I wonder if she’s in some kind of denial. Somehow, the silence seems worse, as if she’s bottling it all up. She’s not thrilled about selling our home and downsizing, though. Who would be?

It’s been two weeks since Dante’s death. After four days, we were allowed to return to our home, but it became clear to me that we couldn’t stay there, for a number of reasons.

First, we can’t afford it. I won’t get the life insurance until the legal matters have been settled, and even though it seems as if I’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing for now, these matters take time. The case is still open.

Then there are the psychological scars. I still see Dante, staring at me, pleading with me with those eyes of his as he was fading, begging not to die, although I knew it was too late for him. I still see Andrew around every corner, and so do my kids. It’s not healthy. We need a new start.

But I don’t even have a job right now. I’m putting the house on the market. I’m putting feelers out for full-time jobs. If we have to get a small apartment or move out of the area, then that’s what we will do. Right now, I’m decluttering. And I’ve directed Trina to do the same. Making piles of stuff to donate. Getting the place ready for showings. It’s not the best time to sell, but what choice do I have?

I’m in the kitchen, holding an electric frying pan, trying to think of the last time I used it. I can’t remember, so I’m about to put it in the discard pile when my daughter enters.

“Mom,” she says, with her arms folded across her chest.

“Yes?” I say, taking in her formidable stance.

“I need to ask a question.”

Obviously, this is going to be a loaded question. I brace myself. “Go ahead, honey. You can ask me anything.”

“Why did you do it?”

My stomach sinks. “Why did I do what?”

“Why did you go online and find that guy? Was Dad having an affair? Or was it because he got so angry at you all the time?”

I stop what I’m doing and sit at the island counter.

I instruct her to do the same.

“Marriage is complicated,” I say. “I wasn’t ready to leave your dad. We were trying to work things out. But I needed someone to talk to. Someone to make me feel good about myself. I made a big mistake, and I’m sorry.”

Trina rolls her eyes, and I don’t blame her. It’s a stock answer, with no substance behind it. “Are you glad he’s dead?” she says.

“I’m a doctor, Trina. I’m never happy when someone is dead. But that man was dangerous, and I’m glad he’s not a threat to us anymore.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Not him, Mom. Are you glad Dad is dead?”

My jaw drops. “Trina! No, how could you think that? Your dad was the love of my life. We had our problems, but like I said, we were working them out.”

“I know you guys fought a lot. The police asked me about it. But I didn’t tell them too much about that. It’s normal, right? That parents fight?”

“Yes, Trina. It’s normal for parents to argue. You don’t have to lie to the police for me. I have nothing to hide.”

“Okay,” she says. “I won’t. I mean, I didn’t. I just didn’t give a lot of detail. Gramma said it’s better that way.”

I struggle with how to handle this. “Just be polite to the police,” I say. “And don’t lie to them.”

The doorbell rings, saving me from this awkward conversation. At least she’s opening up again. Frankly, I thought it would be much worse. And I wonder what else my mother and Trina talked about.

I’m expecting the real estate agent. She’s bringing a stager. But when I open the door, it’s not her. It’s my mother.

“Monica? What’s this I hear about you selling your home?” She pushes past me and into the living room.

“How did you⁠—”

“That doesn’t matter,” she says. “What’s happening? Are you moving? What’s this about?”

I tell her my reasons for selling our house, both financial and emotional.

She nods along. “That’s exactly why I’ve been calling. Trying to get a hold of you. Why are you dodging my calls?”

“I’m not,” I say.

Except I have been, and we both know it. I’m not sure why. Once again, I’m pushing people away.

“I’m revising the trust,” she says. “Turning half of it over to you. Money should not be a problem from now on.”

“What’s the catch?” I say to her.

“Will you stop this? Will you stop trying to make me out as the enemy and realize that everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you?”

“For me?”

“Yes, Monica. For you. You’re all I have now. You, and Trina and Noah. You think I’m impervious to pain? To grief? I’m not. I’ve just been raised to tuck it all away. And I’m not getting any younger. Please. Stay here. Don’t leave. Now you can focus on your children. You never have to work a day again in your life.”

“Mom. You don’t get it. I like my work. Maybe you think it’s beneath me, but I like it.”

Her brow furrows. “Beneath you? I don’t think medicine is beneath anyone. It’s a noble calling.”

“Then why were you so dead set against it? Why did you try and stop me?”

She lets out a sigh. “Because I didn’t want you to spend your whole life trying to make up for what happened to Ethan. I wanted you to move on. Be happy. Not be mired in sadness and grief.”

I stop and look at her. And for once, I see her in a different light. Have I misjudged her all these years? I had no idea she was worried about me, and how I was coping with Ethan’s death. Yes, I became a radiologist to honor Ethan. But that’s not a bad thing.

“It doesn’t make me sad, Mom. It gives my life meaning. It gives Ethan’s life meaning.”

Rolling her eyes, she replies, “If you say so.”

She’s still her, I see. Her same snarky self. But now, for some reason, it doesn’t bother me as much.

I smirk. “I say so.”

“Come,” she says, beckoning me with her finely manicured hand. Unlike her face, her hands show her age, and for the first time, it hits me that my mother won’t be around forever.

We embrace.

It feels a little stiff, but it’s a start.

“I still want to sell this place,” I say.

She holds me by my shoulders as we relax our embrace. “You’ll stay here, though? In the area?”

“I will, if I can get a job. But don’t call in any favors. I want to get this one myself.”

She eyes me. “What makes you think I’d have favors to call in?”

“Didn’t you intervene so Andrew would still have a shot at the promotion?”

Mother smirks. “Me? No. That wasn’t me, Monica. You overestimate my powers of persuasion. That was a coincidence.”

The real estate agent and her stager arrive, and my mother follows them around, barking orders thinly disguised as suggestions.

If anything, I underestimate my mother’s powers of persuasion, and I don’t believe in coincidences, but that’s not important right now. At least my immediate financial pressures have been alleviated. I don’t need a job.

But I want a job.

And that feels good.

FORTY-SEVEN

MONICA

This time, coffee with Jason Whittaker feels like a date.

And this time, I don’t mind it that much.

That wasn’t the pretext for our meetup. I friended him on social media, feeling a little bad about how we left things the last time. And then he messaged me, something about a job lead, and invited me for coffee.

It seems they are looking for a new attending radiologist at Redwood City Medical Center, where I did my medical internship all those years ago. I didn’t finish my residency there because I married Andrew and left the Bay Area. I had to transfer to a program in New Jersey, which wasn’t as renowned. It wasn’t easy to pull off, either. Transfers are rare. But I did it. For him.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a set schedule, and the locum life has its perks. But my therapist thinks that I need more social interaction, and a full-time job at a busy teaching hospital would certainly accomplish that. Now that my mother is so involved with the kids, I could take a full-time job. She even volunteers at both schools on my behalf.

Still, I’m not sure it’s what I want, but I didn’t share that with Jason. I told him that I would apply, because I will. It’s nice to have options, and I can always turn it down.

“How are you coping with everything? It seems like a lot,” he says.

“I manage,” I say. “My mother’s been a big help. And I have to be strong for the kids.”

He nods, then takes a beat.

“Did it change you?” he asks. “Seeing your life flash before your eyes? Because it changed me.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that we have this in common. One of the reasons I reached out to Jason, besides the fact that he’s single and just attractive enough for me, was because he knew about Andrew. About Andrew’s anger. He knew I was afraid of him, so I figured he would be less likely to question it, if, over time, it came across that I wasn’t as much of a grieving widow as I appeared to be. I figured, out of anyone, he might understand. He might not pry, or judge me.

But the fact that he is the one person who has this in common with me. The one person I know who has actually faced death at the hands of a knife blade, well, this makes him even more appealing.

“I’m not sure yet, but I think it must have. I’ve been on autopilot. I think it hasn’t caught up with me yet. I’m sad about Dante. That he never got the help he needed. That I wasn’t able to talk him down.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

Except that my hands aren’t so clean, and I realize that I’ll only ever be able to keep someone at arm’s length. I’ll only be able to let them in so far.

“How did it change you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Mostly, it changed me in a good way, although I still have the occasional nightmare.”

“I get those too,” I tell him.

“But it’s also made me bolder. I don’t hold back anymore. I feel like I got a second chance at life, and I want to make the most of it. I felt that way after my divorce. I feel that way even more now. Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe I should feel guilty for not missing my marriage. For what Logan has to go through, with the shared custody. Maybe I’m a horrible person.”

“Don’t feel guilty,” I say. “My marriage wasn’t all that great, as I think you know. But still, I’m devastated for my kids. They lost their dad. It breaks my heart every time Trina glances at one of her dad’s photos and I see her eyes water. You’re divorced, sure, but Logan’s mom is still alive. But even in my situation. Even though my kids lost their father, I still feel excited about the chance to start fresh. How horrible is that?”

“Only a little,” he says.

“You can be two people at the same time, Jason. The person who is sad for your child, and the person who is happy for yourself.”

Jason smiles, and I notice for the first time that he has dimples. Perhaps I’ve never looked at him carefully before. “Truthfully, I thought your husband was a jackass, even though he saved my life.”

I laugh. “He was kind of a jackass.”

He raises his coffee mug. “To being horribly happy for ourselves,” he says.

And we toast.

I take a deep breath, and then I let it out. Sharing a bit of my real self with Jason didn’t cause him to recoil, or go storming off. He didn’t call me a black widow, either. Maybe I can move on. Put the past behind. Bury my secrets.

And learn to live with what I’ve done.

FORTY-EIGHT

MONICA

With the money from the trust, I was able to buy a new home in the same neighborhood, even before our house sold. It’s under contract, although it’s only been on the market a few weeks, but we have already moved into the new place. It’s lovely. Not too large. In a few years, Trina will go off to college. A few years after that, Noah will, too. I don’t want to feel lonely, wandering around some cavernous villa. I want to feel comfortable. Cozy. And be walking distance to town. I’ll never get married again, that much I know, and I don’t want to be isolated.

As I’m deciding which photos from our old place to put up and which to store, I come across one of Andrew and me. It’s nothing special, just a nice close-up of the two of us, back when I was gaga about him. My hair is longer, and my dark curls hang loose around my face. His hand is on my cheek. We are smiling, ear to ear. It was taken by a passerby, as we were walking across the Golden Gate Bridge, which you can see in the background.

Did Andrew love me? It looks like he did. We look like two people in love, and as much as I moved to a new home for a new start, I decide that, for the kids, this one should stay on display, at least while they live here, so they know that they were conceived in love. So they know that it’s okay to remember their dad.

Because I loved Andrew. I did. With all my heart.

I loved him too much.

So much, that I turned into a different person for him.

Why did I put up with his outbursts? His anger? I knew that someday he would flip a switch. Some day when it all proved to be too much for him, he would blow.

That day turned out to be the day I confronted him about the photos.

As I entered the den, I summoned my inner strength. The envelope wavered in my trembling hand, but I was resolved. “Andrew,” I said. “We need to talk.”

I’d read up a little about how to deescalate someone on the brink of rage. About how to not rile them up to begin with. This was no way to live, I realized. Walking on eggshells. Tiptoeing around his mood swings. But it was a way to make sure I got out of this confrontation in one piece.

For so long, I’d been rationalizing his anger. Brushing it off because he’d never hit me. He’d grabbed me, though. He’d left marks on my wrists, and I’d told nobody about that. It was too embarrassing.

I’d even lied to myself. The day I threw a mug at Andrew it was because he was coming after me. Chasing me. I needed some time, to get to the bathroom and lock myself in, so he would calm down. I knew how far he’d gone, but I didn’t know how far he would go.

But still, I made excuses. I believed him about that nurse all those years ago. Rachel, who had claimed he’d nearly punched her in the face. It occurred to me much later that if Andrew had actually punched a wall, he probably would have injured his hand, or even broken it. That meant he probably hadn’t aimed for the wall. He’d probably grazed it when she ducked out of the way. Why didn’t I see that at the time? Why was I so blinded by his charm?

I told myself that grabbing me wasn’t the same as hitting me, that he didn’t know his own strength. That I gave as good as I got, verbally, at least, and that I had to stop riling him up. When he kicked in the bathroom door and split it in two. Even then, I didn’t want to face reality.

The night I confronted him about the photos, Trina was out at a friend’s house, but Noah was home. I figured he’d keep it together, for his son. He was a good dad. A good provider. Those had always been points in his favor.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head when I showed him the two photos, of him on the hotel bed, stretched out like a horny alley cat. “Where the hell did you get those?” he said, almost in a whisper.

So far, it was going okay. As long as I didn’t get hysterical, it would be alright. Andrew would be reasonable, or so I thought. It’s amazing how much he’d fucked with my head. How far I’d come from the woman I’d once been. I had every right to yell at him, but I didn’t dare.

Calmly, I replied, “I don’t know. They were left in our mailbox. Who took them, Andrew? What is this about?”

His face flushed and his look turned sheepish. Then he stood up and ran his hand through his hair. He turned to me. “I swear,” he said. “It’s not how it looks. She meant nothing to me. She was a… I didn’t even know her real name.”

“And how does it look?” I asked.

“It looks like I was… you know. With someone else.”

“Were you? With someone else?”

He let out a breath and sat again, facing me, an earnest expression on his face. “Look. This woman. She hit on me, at work. She flirted with me. Gave me her number. Asked me to meet her, to play chess.”

“Chess?”

“Yeah. Chess. I figured it was a line. For a while, I didn’t follow up. But I had a moment of weakness, after everything that happened with the promotion and the guy at the hospital and how we weren’t doing so great. So I texted her. We met up, at this hotel in East Palo Alto.”

He went on to tell me some story about how she really wanted to play chess. But then she told him to take off his pants, and he figured it was some kind of strip poker thing. Then she told him to close his eyes, so he did. And when he opened his eyes, she was gone.

“After she split, I figured it was some kind of scam. She was one of those hookers who steal your money, except she didn’t take anything. I figured she was going to blackmail me, or maybe that douchebag at work set it up so he could find a way to screw with my promotion. I swear to God nothing happened between us, Monica. Well, we kissed a little, but aside from that, nothing happened. And then you and I started to reconnect, and I felt terrible about it.”

“You think that’s what I’m worried about? You cheating on me?”

“What then?” he asked.

I showed him the photo of the woman with a busted-up face.

Jumping up, he cried out, “No! No, no, no. No way I did that. You have to believe me, Monica. I would never hit a woman. I’m not even sure that’s the same woman. It’s probably a fake! I’ve never hit you. Somebody’s trying to fuck with me. Maybe it’s the guy I beat up in the ER.”

“You have an anger problem, Andrew. You know it. I know it. Your boss knows it. That’s why you were mandated by your employer to take an anger management class.”

His eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

Careful not to raise my voice, I said, “That’s not important. I’m divorcing you. I could use this evidence to invoke the infidelity clause. But if you go quietly and promise to get some counseling, I won’t make an issue of the anger problem during our custody negotiations. I’ll give you half the house, and I won’t use the prenup to screw you financially. If you don’t, I’ll file for full custody and take everything. But either way, I want you out of this house. Tonight.”

His lips pressed together and his nostrils flared. “This is bullshit!” he cried out. His fists balled up as he paced, looking to pummel something. His eyes darted around the room.

My stomach lurched.

Is he looking for a weapon?

Then he let out a guttural cry that sounded like it came from the bowels of hell. Turning over the coffee table, he flipped into a violent rage. It all happened so fast. I couldn’t get out of his way.

He lunged at me. Threw me down on the floor. Pinned me down.

“I’ll kill you before I let you take my kids from me!”

I tried to thrash my way out from under him, but he was too strong. “Andrew!” I cried out. “You’re hurting me. Stop!”

“You bitch! You’re not kicking me to the curb. You’re not ruining my life. Of course you believe some gutter slut over your own husband!”

He put his hands around my neck. And he squeezed. I could see his eyes bugging out, almost like he was possessed.

He’s going to kill me.

Then my worst nightmare happened. What I’d been fearing all along.

“Get off of her!” Noah cried out.

Andrew released his grip before too much damage was done, but he stayed on top of me as our heads turned toward our son.

Oh God.

He can’t see us like this.

“Go to your room, Noah,” I choked out, as calmly as I could, “and call nine-one-one.”

Andrew thundered, “Noah! Leave us alone! And don’t you dare touch that phone!” He pinned me down again, so I couldn’t see my son, but I hoped he would follow my instructions.

But Noah didn’t follow my instructions.

He jumped on Andrew’s back and dug his finger into his father’s eye.

Andrew screamed in pain as he threw Noah off.

My son went flying across the room, and our heads turned to follow him.

Noah’s head missed the corner of the upturned glass coffee table by less than an inch. By this time, Andrew was off me and we were both sitting up, facing our son.

“Enough,” I shouted.

Everything came to a screeching halt.

Andrew’s mouth hung open, as if he hadn’t been the one to nearly kill his own son. As if he’d been witnessing another man acting like a crazy person. As if he’d even scared himself.

And on some level, it was another man. His alter ego was gone. The Andrew I fell in love with returned. He tried to hug Noah, but my son only wanted me.

And at that point, I knew.

Divorce was no longer an option. Not only had he put his hands on me, he’d put his hands on my son. It wasn’t all in my head. This would happen again if I didn’t do something drastic. I needed a more permanent solution. One that would protect us all.

When I met “Ben” in person the next day, I realized he was unstable. I knew he had catfished me, but at first, I didn’t understand what was happening. I tried to be kind, because he seemed off. I didn’t want to rile him.

But it soon became clear he wasn’t going to kill my husband just to be with me. The meetup had nothing to do with me, or us. He wanted money, he said. Or he’d make my affair public. Tell everyone how he catfished me. How I was a fraud and a cheater.

He wanted five thousand dollars to keep his mouth shut about our online affair. In hindsight, it seems he planned to double-cross his sister and skip town, although I didn’t know that at the time.

But Dante was an addict, so I made him a better offer. I told him when and where Andrew went running. I told him where to get a rental car, at a place that wouldn’t ask too many questions, with the shitty fake ID he had.

And I told him I’d give him half a million dollars out of my husband’s life insurance proceeds when the dust settled, after I’d gotten the payout, but it couldn’t be all at once.

He’d have to lie low somewhere until then. Play it cool. If he rented the car with his fake ID, I told him the cops would never put two and two together. He could start over somewhere with his real name once he got the money. At that point, I only knew him as Ben. I told him to make it look like an accident, a hit and run.

As for me, I figured if the police found out about him, I could legitimately tell them I didn’t know who he was, aside from the fact that he’d catfished me. He was unstable. If he got caught, it was my word against his. If I got caught, I figured I’d rather go to prison and have my mother raise my kids than have to worry every time they were with their father that Andrew would lose it again and hurt one of them.

The next day, I gave Ben five thousand up front, the petty cash I kept in the safe, in case of an emergency. I knew there was a good chance he’d just take the money and disappear and never follow through on our bargain, and until the police came to my door, I thought that was exactly what had happened. I could not take a large sum out, I told him. Not yet. I gave him a prepaid credit card to rent the car with.

He wasn’t crazed, at least not in the way everyone thought. But he was desperate. After he did it, he wanted more money. More than I could get my hands on. He cornered me in the parking lot at work. I told him it would take some time, but he grew impatient.

I didn’t want Dante Sanderson to die. I only wanted him to leave me alone until I could pay him the rest of the money. That’s why I didn’t have real bullets in the gun. I thought if he came after me, he’d respond to fear. If I fired off some blanks, he’d be reasonable.

But my mother was one step ahead of me, as usual. And when he broke in, I tried to reason with him. Told him it would be too risky to move the money so soon. He was frantic, though. Convinced that he was going to get caught, and he needed more money to skip town. So, I pulled a gun on him, to get him to leave me alone. And then he pulled the knife, and I thought my life was over.

And then my mother did what I couldn’t.

She eliminated the threat, once and for all.

For that, I’m grateful, although in my private moments, his death still haunts me.

But my children are safe, and that’s what is most important.

From him, and from their father.

Dante got greedy, and that’s on him. I tried to save Charlotte, all those years ago. But ironically, through her elaborate web of revenge and deception, she saved me.

EPILOGUE

MONICA

It’s been six months, and life is slowly returning to a new normal. The police found the car Dante used to run Andrew down, and they confirmed with a DNA match that he was the perpetrator. The case is now officially closed. So far, I’m in the clear, but there’s no statute of limitations on conspiracy to commit murder, so each day I spend with my kids is a gift.

My job is going well, the one I ended up taking, as an attending neuroradiologist at the medical center where I started out. Jason and I are dating, taking it slow. On our second date, I told him I’d never get married again, and he said he felt the same way. I’m not sure if he meant it, but for now, it’s working. Because I meant it. I like my life. I like that it’s my own.

Trina and Noah are getting on with their lives, and I’ve even managed to make a new friend. Leslie Foreman, of all people. The head of the parent foundation. The mom of the boy who Noah shoved.

She invited me for coffee, and I thought it was going to be a shakedown, since my mother turned over half of the trust to me. But it wasn’t. She was actually very supportive. We have a lot in common, and our boys are now friends. Eventually, she shared with me that she wanted to divorce her husband. She needed tips on how to be a single parent. I told her she pretty much was one now so not much would change, and we both had a laugh about that.

I don’t feel like a single parent, though. Not as much as I did when Andrew was alive. With him out of the picture and my brother and father gone, my mother and I have gotten closer, and she’s a big help; more of a help than Andrew ever was. We only have each other, and she loves my kids. But there’s still an elephant in the room, and it’s time for it to go lumbering off to the savannah. So, as Mom and I wrap up a Sunday afternoon at my place, and she prepares to depart, I stop her.

“Mom,” I say. “There’s something I need to ask. Something I’ve been wanting to ask for a long time now.”

“About?”

Swallowing, I say, “About Dad. After what happened with Dante. How you handled things. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. Something you’ve been holding back.”

She bites her lower lip, turns away, and then turns back to me. “I know where you’re going with this, Monica. It’s not what you think. But trust me, the less you know, the better.”

But I don’t let her off that easy. If my mother and I are going to have a real relationship, I have to know the truth about my own father. “Mom. No. Something didn’t feel right about the whole thing. A home invasion? You have great security. How could that have even happened?”

“As I told the police, your father hadn’t engaged it yet. He could be lackadaisical. There’s a record to that effect, in the data our system records. You know this.”

I do, but still, I’m not satisfied.

“Tell me the truth. Did Dad… do something to you? Did he cheat or something, and you wanted to get even?”

My mother gasps, and she looks truly taken aback. “Monica! Do you think I’d kill the father of my children over an affair? That’s, well, that’s not even practical. If the police investigated, they would find out about his affair, and I’d be the first suspect. And to answer your question, to my knowledge, your father never had an affair. He loved me, deeply. I should think that would have been obvious.”

“Well then. What about you?” I ask. “Did you ever stray?”

Letting out a sigh she says, “You can’t just leave this, can you?”

“Not yet,” I say. “Not until it all makes sense to me.”

She takes my hand in hers and looks me in the eye. “Let me just say, I know firsthand how dangerous a stalker can be,” she says. “That’s why I made sure your home was watched. That’s why I told Braden, shoot to kill.”

“Wait,” I say. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me? Was the guy who killed Dad? Was he your…”

“Don’t ask any more questions, Monica. Let’s just say that hypothetically, if a person were to have an affair. And if that person broke off the affair, the other person might be upset. Might take drastic measures.”

My hand flies to my forehead. “That’s how he got into the house, right? He had a key?”

“The details don’t matter.”

“But where is this man now?”

“Handled,” she says. “And that’s all you need to know.”

And then I remember our neighbor who went missing. Darrell Simmons. I remember one Christmas when we were visiting, he and his wife came over for drinks. I remember he and my mother seemed very friendly. A little too friendly.

Did my mother and Darrell Simmons have an affair?

Is he not really missing?

“I loved your father, Monica. Maybe more than I realized at the time. He was gentle. Kind. And there was a time when I craved a little more excitement. Someone with more gusto. Someone with more fire in the belly. Perhaps it was Ethan’s death. Maybe it was a way of numbing the pain. But I realized that your father was exactly who I needed. I didn’t want an angry alpha. I liked calling the shots. Your father and I, we fit. But by the time I figured that out, it was too late. You of all people should understand. Do you want another Andrew, now that he’s out of your life?”

“No. I don’t.”

“I saw that side of him early on. And I was right, wasn’t I? He was controlling. He isolated you. He took you away from your family. Your friends. And I suppose we were lucky that those two misfits came along and took care of him for us.” Then she narrows her eyes at me. “Or maybe not so lucky, Monica. Maybe you have more to share? Maybe you and I are more alike than you’re willing to admit?”

Swallowing, I tell her, “There’s nothing more you need to know. And I’ll stop asking questions if you will. Deal?”

“Deal,” she says. “Now, I need to get going.”

We hold each other’s gaze a little longer than normal, and I see that look in her eye. It’s the same look I give Noah, when he catches sight of his sister mired in grief and then looks to me. A look that says we share a secret, one we will take to the grave. I told him that nobody needed to know what happened that night, although I sense he may have told his sister some of it. I told him his dad loved him. That his dad made a mistake. That we will protect his dad’s legacy by keeping it to ourselves, and that it’s okay to feel sad and angry at the same time.

But that’s all I told him, and he didn’t ask any questions.

I imagine as he gets older, he might.

My mother stands and heads for the door.

I follow her.

As my mind reels with this new information, as I process this unspoken pact between my mother and me, another untimely death springs to mind, and I can’t help but bring it up.

As she’s halfway out the door, I say, “Mom. Bradley Powell?”

She turns to me, her brow furrowed. “Oh, Bradley. Yes, that was quite a tragedy. Not surprising, though, given his history. His own mother wasn’t even shocked. Sad, yes. But not shocked. Didn’t you say he got drunk on your first date?”

“Yes, I did say that.”

But I wonder how much more she knows. She was probably spying on me. On Bradley.

Mom flips her hair off of her shoulder. She’s wearing it a little longer these days. “Karma has a way of catching up with people when they don’t behave properly. I’m not sure he deserved to die, but he did deserve something more than a stomp on the foot, even if you did manage to get some heel into it.”

With a smirk, she goes on her way.

I doubt my mother did anything nefarious to Bradley Powell, but I’m certain she did something to whoever killed my father. Whoever he was, he deserved it, and I’m confident that he’s no threat to her now. I guess Mom and I are more alike than I thought.

If someday the truth comes out, I’ll take my chances with a trial. And if it comes to that, I’ll look the jurors in the eye and ask, “How far would you go to protect your child?”

They’ll look at me, and then they’ll look away. Because, let’s face it, many of them would probably sympathize with me. A few might even view me as a hero.

Because how far would you go to protect your child?

With any luck, you’ll never have to find out.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My sincere thanks to the many people who helped me craft this novel and bring it to completion. Thanks to my invaluable alpha readers Rick, Robin, Susan, and others who offered excellent suggestions and encouragement. Thanks to Your Beta Reader for the excellent professional beta reads. Thanks to my fabulous editor at BooksGoSocial, and to the entire team for their expert advice in marketing and promotions. Thanks to all of my advance copy readers on Booksprout and NetGalley who take the time to read my books and post their reviews.

Special thanks to Professor Andrew Wilner, a locum tenens physician and author of The Locum Life, who chatted with me about the locum profession and checked my medical scenes. Special thanks also to Dr. Jennifer Roost who read an advance copy, corrected my medical errors, and also put me in touch with her radiologist friend who gave me valuable insight into the life of a practicing radiologist.

Finally, thanks so much to my readers. You are why I keep writing, and I am so grateful for the time you take to read my books as well as rate and comment on them. I read all of my reviews and they help me to improve, so please keep them coming. I really appreciate it. For updates, book reviews, and special offers, please go to www.bonnietraymore.com and sign up for my quarterly newsletter.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bonnie Traymore is an award-winning, Amazon bestselling author of domestic and psychological thrillers that explore the dark truths beneath seemingly perfect lives. Her novels explore jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders.

On the following pages, please enjoy a sample of The Rich Guy’s Wife. Erin’s always dreamed of a life of luxury. But at what price?

PROLOGUE

ERIN

Mother’s voice rings in my ears as I stand perfectly still in the darkness, fearing that each breath I take will be my last:

Be careful what you wish for, Erin.

I’m crouched down in the closet, my legs and back aching to move, even an inch. But I can’t. One twitch, one cramp, and I’ll bang into a shelf and give myself away.

Sweat beads form at my hairline, nagging at me as they threaten to drip down my face. I slide a hand up my side, being careful not to bang into anything, and wipe away the dampness. Perspiration mixes with the blood on my hand, reminding me of the carnage outside the door.

Why did I touch the body?

I always thought my mother said things like that to darken my dreams. To stave off the inevitable disappointment that comes from shooting too high in life and falling short. For daring to reach for the stars, only to have them slip through your fingers and fall away like glitter from a magic wand.

Nothing she said deterred me, though. Because I figured something out pretty early on in life. In New York City, if you’re not filthy rich, you’re poor—and I was not going to end up like her.

But I see now that my mother spoke from experience.

She knew them.

Studied them.

Understood them.

The rich guys, and their wives.

What she really meant was:

Be careful what you’re wishing for, Erin.

Because I got what I wished for.

I’m a rich guy’s wife now.

And it just might be the death of me.

CHAPTER 1

ERIN

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

It’s one of those magical Friday nights in Manhattan, full of hope and possibilities. It’s nearly seven in the evening, and we’re on the brink of summer, but a slight nip in the air remains. Soon, the summer swelter will arrive, dividing the haves and the have-nots, turning the city into a ghost town as far as the who’s who and filling it with twenty-year-old college interns, out-of-town tourists, and bridge and tunnel weekend warriors. In short, time is running out.

I enter the bar guardedly optimistic, which is pretty much my go-to state. At heart, I’m an optimist, but that’s been tempered over the years by my upbringing and life experiences. Still, a little uptick in my pulse tells me that hope lives in me, and as I search the crowd for my friend Lucy, I can’t help but notice that the ratio is in our favor this evening.

Bumping up against a pack of twenty-something giggly girls, already tipsy but young enough to come off looking cute rather than pathetic, my biological clock ticks like a time bomb. I’ve been at this for far too long. At some point, I’ll have to settle. Or move. Or something. At thirty-one, I still have some time, but not much.

“Hey, Erin,” Lucy calls out, her hand shooting up from her perch at the bar.

We’re aiming for the after-work crowd tonight. Lucy Chang is a star defense attorney, the kind who doesn’t need a man to live large. We met in private school, lost touch, and then reconnected. Her dark, silky hair shimmers in the wash of the overhead lights. She’s dressed in a gray pencil skirt and a soft white blouse, unbuttoned just enough to add a hint of sexy to her toughness.

I’m wearing a cobalt blue dress that hugs my body and brings out my eyes. Not too short, just above the knee, but with little slits on the sides that hint at what’s underneath. We make good barfly partners, the two of us. The tall, thin brunette and the busty blonde.

“What’ll you have?” she asks, snapping her fingers at the bartender.

The bartender glares at Lucy as he positions himself in front of me. He’s cute. Really cute. But he’s not the kind of guy I’m looking for. Still, he’s a human being, and Lucy can be a little harsh sometimes. Plus, I don’t want him to poison us.

“Sorry about my friend,” I say to him with a smile. “She spends her days with hardened criminals.”

“Guilty.” Lucy offers an apologetic shrug.

He smiles back at me. “What can I get you?” he asks me.

“A champagne cocktail,” I reply.

Lucy’s saved me a seat, but it’s three-deep at the bar and standing room only now. It’s a large bar in a trendy restaurant. Koho, it’s called. Just east of Grand Central, so we’ll get the Westchester commuter crowd, too. We catch up as we scan the room, pretending that we’re there to gal pal when it’s obvious we’re here to meet guys. If we really wanted to talk, we’d do lunch or go for a power walk.

Next to us are a pair of elder statesmen. They must be close to fifty, or even older. Divorcées, if I had to guess, from the way they’re looking around, not talking to one another. Or married guys in search of a little on the side. I’m not attracted to men that age, and although my goal is to marry money, I’m not about to force myself into anything that doesn’t feel right on a physical level. I’m not that desperate. I’ll never be that desperate.

Lucy and I catch each other up on our happenings as we sip our cocktails and try not to look too available. She tells me about her latest case, a supposed whistleblower who it turns out was embezzling from his company and is now facing criminal charges. We pass the time, but my heart’s not in it. I’m tired, and I think about reviving my online dating profile. I needed a break, but looking at the drink prices, a monthly subscription probably offers more bang for the buck.

I’m about to tell Lucy we should call it a night when I notice a guy standing in the corner, checking me out. He’s alone, it seems. Wearing a suit and tie, which makes him stand out—in a good way. Frankly, I’m not a big fan of the dressing down trend. His dark gray suit jacket hangs perfectly on his broad shoulders, obviously tailor-made. A blue-and-white-striped tie sits on a starched white collared shirt. His face is serious and symmetrical. Handsome—and young enough for me.

I turn away, not wanting to make it obvious that I’m interested in him. Maybe he’s not looking at me, in particular. The older guys next to me ask if they can buy us a drink, but I respectfully decline, although the drinks are so expensive here, I’ll probably only be able to have two over the course of the evening.

Turning back to Lucy, I see that she’s busy chatting with the guy next to her, so I sneak a glance back in Suit Guy’s direction. His pressed lips curl up to a smile, letting me know that he knows I’m interested. He starts strolling in my direction, and I feel a little flutter in my stomach.

At least I think he’s coming toward me, but now I can’t see him through the crowd. After a few minutes, I spot him talking to one of the giggly girls. She’s holding him by the arm, and his back is to me. It seems he’s been intercepted. If he’s looking for a hook-up, she’s probably a better bet. Those days are over for me.

Oh well.

Lucy asks me if I want another drink.

I tell her I’m not sure.

A tap on my shoulder pulls my attention from her.

“I’d like to get that for you,” a voice says as I turn around.

Suit Guy has a faint accent.

European.

Probably German, which explains the suit and tie.

“I’m Stefan,” he says.

Well, I’ll let him buy me a drink, but this isn’t going to be the man of my dreams. I’m not about to play tour guide for some foreign guy looking for an escort during his business trip. But still, he seems nice enough, so I say yes to the drink.

“I’m Erin,” I say. “And this is my friend Lucy.”

When he smiles, his stoic exterior softens. I have to admit, Stefan is having an effect on me, in spite of myself. It’s a little noisy in the bar now, and we have to strain to carry on a conversation. Lucy busies herself talking to the guy next to her, although I’m pretty sure she’s not interested in him. She’s a good wing woman.

Stefan keeps the focus on me, asking me questions about myself. I’m very selective about what I disclose in these kinds of situations. I work in marketing, I say, keeping it short and sweet.

If he asks, I’ll reveal that I attended an exclusive private high school, followed by a prestigious liberal arts college for undergrad. I won’t disclose that I was a scholarship student at both institutions. Erin Donovan, daughter of Mary Donovan, a single mother who worked two jobs that barely covered our rent.

But he doesn’t ask much about my past. Rather, he asks me what I like to do. I tell him I’m more of an indoor cat, preferring museums and gallery openings to hikes and nature adventures. He smiles at this. A slightly crooked smile that makes him look less serious, more fun.

Up close, he’s even more handsome than he was from far away. His twinkly eyes are dark hazel with a hint of blue, or perhaps that’s the overhead light bouncing off my dress. I think he has the kind of eyes that change color depending on the setting. His jaw is square, his face angular and strong. Lips full, but not too full, and totally kissable.

Too bad he’s not from here.

Stefan is a tad cagey about himself, not really answering my question when I ask what he does. “I’m in commodities,” he says.

Is he a trader? Does he own an oil rig? Is he intentionally being vague to seem more intriguing? Whatever it is, it’s working. The second champagne cocktail is loosening me up, and I can’t believe I’m actually considering a one-night stand with this guy. Even though he’s not marriage material, it’s been months since my last relationship, and I have to admit, I miss the feel of a man’s hands on my body. He smells good, too. A hint of aftershave mixed with man scent.

“Where do you live?” I ask, expecting something like Hamburg, Brussels, or Zurich.

“The Hamptons,” he says. “Would you like to get out of here and grab some dinner? My driver’s outside.”

My eyes widen, and he gives me that closed-lip smile again. I try hard to dampen my enthusiasm, but I fail miserably. A giddy grin spreads up my face. He knows I’m going to say yes and so do I, even though the guy could be a serial killer, for all I know.

“Sure,” I say. “I’d love to have dinner with you. But why don’t we stay here and get a table? I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strangers.”

“Fair enough,” Stefan says. “But we’re not going to be strangers for very long.”

To find out if Stefan is too good to be true, grab your copy of The Rich Guy’s Wife now…