44

Jason stood with his back to the door leading into his house. The garage he and Serena had cluttered up over the years felt empty without the menace of the thugs looking for Phil.

A hand went to his face. They had talked about carving numbers in his skin. And Serena. It occurred to him that they’d been here all night, with Serena home alone. Pock-Face had called her the pretty lady. They’d gotten a look at her.

He tried the door to the house. Locked. They never locked it. This was the only door they kept unlocked. They had the big garage door to keep people out.

The key was still under the mat. It rattled to the slot but missed the grooves, jamming. He yanked it out, tried again and got it lined up, unlocked it, and burst inside.

“Serena!”

No answer. She wasn’t in the kitchen. The dining room was empty. Jason ran from room to room, calling her name. Heard no response.

He charged up the stairs. First to their bedroom. Their bed was made.

The bathroom. He heard the pulse and splash of the shower and burst in.

Serena yelped. Behind the shower glass her arm went to her breasts. She called his name reproachfully.

One hand on the knob, he stood in the doorway, unable to catch his breath, his heart hammering. He sank to the floor.

Serena turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. She came to him, long hair pressed to her scalp and dripping. Drops of water clung to her bare shoulders as she knelt.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

Jason shook his head. His hands went to his face. Serena’s hands took his, lowered them.

“Jason.” She angled her head, trying to get into his line of sight.

He met her eyes. Around the brown pupils, the whites were lined with red, and the skin around her eyes was swollen. He recognized the look from other times she’d been crying. “They didn’t . . . ? Those guys didn’t . . . ?”

“What guys?”

“Two guys. In the garage. They didn’t come inside?”

“No.” She looked toward the door as if he might have led them in. “What did they want?”

He wanted to wrap his arms around her. Wanted to feel her warmth against him. Put all the cheating behind them.

But it was too late.

He pushed up off the floor.

Serena rose with him. Water pooled on the slate at her feet. “Jason? What did they want?”

“They wanted to scare me. I guess it worked.” He turned away and dropped onto the bed. “They had knives. One of them keyed up the Bimmer pretty good.”

She brought a trail of wet footprints onto the carpet. “I’m calling the police.”

“Wait.”

The receiver was in her hand, halfway to her damp ear. “Wait? Knives, Jason? And you want me to wait?”

“Just give me a minute.” He was seated on his bed in his home. He knew that. He was in his bedroom with his wife. She stood within reach. He could touch her if he extended his hand, could feel the terry cloth that clung to her skin or the dampness on her shins. But the reality of where he stood and the things around him wouldn’t help him escape the feeling that he stood on a precipice. One step, two, and a chain of events as incontrovertible as gravity would take him.

Here stood Serena, surrounded by the house they’d built together. They’d intended to live out their lives here. The shade of paint on the walls, the color of the carpet, the patterns on the furniture, the sinks and shower heads in the bathrooms—it was all assembled at their expense and direction. But her cheating was like a demolition ball. The place mocked him every time he entered. And her denials were an insult.

He brought his eyes to her face. Why had she come back? What did she hope to gain by insisting on her innocence despite proof? She’d grown tired of her lover. That must be it. He’d made her a bad cup of coffee or left dirty dishes in the sink or said something that revealed he wasn’t worthy of her. So she’d come back to Jason. Old, reliable Jason, who would always stand by waiting for her like a groom at an altar expecting the bride’s entrance.

“Give me the phone.” He held his hand out.

Her drying brow made an inquisitive turn, and then he saw expectation on her face, expectation that he would do the right thing. Like he always did the right thing. Follow the rules. The police and the law, the chain of authority, the consequences the punks from the garage should face. It was what she wanted him to do. She slipped the cordless phone into his palm.

He tossed it onto the bed next to him.

Her head jutted forward. “Really? You’re going to let them get away with this?”

He stood away from the bed and went to the closet. Serena kept talking about what he was supposed to do. He unbuttoned his cuffs and collar and drew the shirt over his head without unbuttoning the rest of the buttons. It went on the floor. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants, ignoring Serena’s goading him to debate. Her voice was a cattle prod. She wanted him in her pen or led to slaughter. It didn’t matter to her as long as he was under her control.

He walked to the shower, staying ahead of her voice. She wouldn’t stop, not until he gave in.

The shower valve was in his hand before he’d had enough. He turned. “I’m not calling the police, Serena. I’m going to take a shower and go to work.”

Her lips clenched. She folded her arms over the towel. “Then I’ll call them myself.”

“No. They’re after Phil.”

A shake of the head, those brown eyes squinting. “So?”

“So I’m going to hand him over.”