Faces of Fear

The man turned around, and it wasn’t simply the grim expression on his face that told Conrad Dunn what had happened.

Rather, it was the sight of Ruffles in the man’s arms.

“Lieutenant Dickson, Dr. Dunn,” the man said. “LAPD.”

Conrad felt the blood drain from his face. He knew. Oh God, he knew.

He sank to the edge of the sofa.

The lieutenant set Ruffles on the floor, and the little white dog ran to Conrad and jumped up into his lap, whimpering and licking at his face.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Dunn,” the policeman said, “but we found your wife’s body on the beach below Vanderlip Park in Palos Verdes.” He hesitated, but when Conrad only looked mutely at him, finally spoke again. “She’d called in a report that a locked Lexus with a white dog had been abandoned there. She…” His voice trailed off as he drew a cell phone from his pocket.

Margot’s cell phone — the one studded with diamonds — that he’d bought her only last month.

“She left a message on this for you,” Lieutenant Dickson said.

“Margot,” Conrad whispered as a cold numbness began to spread through his body.

“I’m so sorry,” the lieutenant murmured, and set the phone down on the corner of the desk.

Starting to tremble, Conrad pressed the little dog to his chest as if to transfer the warmth from its body to his own, barely aware of the voices around him as Sandra spoke with the policeman.

“Margot,” he whispered again, grief burning inside him.

Grief, and something else.

“Why did you do it?” he whispered. But of course he already knew why.

Now the guilt began to burn hotter than the grief. He should never have made her go to the banquet last night. She’d told him she wasn’t up to it, but he’d insisted. And it had been too much.

It was all his fault. If only he’d begun the repair work on her face…

He looked up and saw her, stunning in a red Versace gown on the cover of Vanity Fair. He’d had the cover blown up, framed, and hung on his office wall. “How can I go on?” he whispered. “How can I possibly go on without you?”

But the calm beauty on the cover offered him no answers.

ALISON HEARD the garage door rattle open and checked the time. Eleven-thirty, which meant her mother thought she was asleep instead of talking with Cindy on her cell phone about going to a party Friday night. If her dad had seen her light on and told her mother, she could lose the phone for a week. On the other hand, so far her father had either never noticed her light on late or, if he had, hadn’t told her mother. And that thought led to another idea.

“My dad’s home,” she said, “gotta go. But when he comes in to say good-night, I’ll ask him about Friday night. That way I can tell my mother that Dad already said yes when I talk to her in the morning.”

“Okay,” Cindy said.

“I’ll call you back.”

“Tell me tomorrow,” Cindy said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.” Alison clicked off her cell phone, moved from her bed to her desk — might as well at least look like she’d been studying — and waited.

And waited.

As the minutes ticked by and she still didn’t hear her father coming up the stairs, she went to the door, opened it, and listened.

Though she couldn’t quite make out the words, she heard her mother’s voice coming from the kitchen in that low, you-better-understand-what-I’m-saying voice her mother used when she’d done something wrong.

Maybe she’d wait and ask her dad about Friday night in the morning, at breakfast.

But before she closed the door to her room, she heard her mother’s voice rise abruptly and a single word resound clearly up the stairwell: “Lying!”

She froze.

Lying? Who was lying? What was going on?

She crept to the head of the stairs, where she could hear both of them clearly, then hesitated, wanting to find out what was going on but also to go back to her room, close the door, and pretend nothing was happening.

Knowing she should go back to her room, she sat down instead.

Sat, and listened.

“I CALLED the station, Michael,” Risa said, trying hard to control the anger that had been simmering inside her for the last two hours. She didn’t want to shout at him, and she certainly didn’t want to cry — whatever was going on wouldn’t be solved by either of those reactions. “They said you left the office at six.” Michael sank onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “So please don’t tell me you were at work until eleven. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course you’re not—”

“And I can smell liquor on your breath, so you’ve been drinking.”

Michael nodded. “I had a couple of drinks,” he agreed. “But I’m not drunk — nowhere near.”

“So who were you with?” Risa sat on the stool next to him. Before he could reply, she went on. “And please don’t tell me it was ‘a business associate.’ If it was, you’d have said so in the message you left.”

Michael looked at his hands. “It’s not what you think,” he finally said, still failing to meet her eyes.

Risa took a deep breath, forcing herself to keep her voice calm, to betray none of the anger that was rapidly coming to a boil. Of course it was what she thought it was; what else could it possibly be? “For God’s sake, Michael,” she said when she could trust her voice not to tremble. “We’ve been married for almost twenty years. We’ve been best friends — partners!” She took another breath, which escaped in a sigh of defeat only a second or two later. “My mother told me that a woman always knows when her husband is having an affair, and it turns out she was right. I know you’re having an affair — I can feel it.”

She saw Michael’s body tense, but still he said nothing.

She laid a hand on his arm, and at least he didn’t pull it away. “Michael, I know our sex life hasn’t been everything it could be. And I’m more than willing to take at least some of the responsibility for that.” A sob caught in her chest, and she paused before continuing. “For God’s sake, Michael, don’t just sit there saying nothing at all! At least tell me who she is!”

He finally turned to face her, unconsciously straightening on the stool, and when their eyes at last met for the first time since Michael had come into the house from the garage a few minutes ago, Risa felt a cold terror begin to spread through her body. Her husband betrayed no anger at all, or defensiveness, or anything other than two simple emotions.

Love and sorrow.

Whatever had happened, she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t just an affair.

“There isn’t another woman, Risa,” he said softly, taking her hands in his own.

Risa gazed at him in puzzlement. If there wasn’t another woman—

The truth came to her just as he spoke the words:

“It’s a man.”

As she tried to come to grips with what her husband — the man she’d lived with and loved for almost two decades and thought she knew as well as she knew herself — had just told her, the other shoe dropped.

“And we’re not having an affair,” he went on, his voice quiet but clear. “We’ve fallen in love.”

Tears sprang to Risa’s eyes and overflowed her lids. But even as her tears flowed, she realized she had absolutely nothing to say. Of all the things she had imagined over the last couple of weeks, this— this—had never even entered her mind.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Michael said, and put one hand on her cheek. His words and his voice were gentle, and his hand felt warm.

She jerked away. The last thing she needed was his affection or — worse — his pity. Not now. The pain of betrayal seared through her guts, and suddenly she could barely breathe.

“I wish it were different,” she heard him saying, and now his voice sounded as if it was coming from far away, from a place she already understood she could never go. “I’ve wished that for years now.”