I waved my glass at him. “So they got the hooks out.” My words came out slurred. My head was spinning, but in a nice, delightful way. “Here’sh to the good docs at the hoshpital.” I raised my glass in cheers and took a swig. “How’d they do it?”
“They pushed the hooks, including the barbs, right through my flesh,” he said coolly. “Following the natural curve of the hook until the point and the barb poked out the other side. Then they cut the points and barbs off with bolt cutters, then drew the shanks back out the way they went in. Luckily the hooks missed vital parts.”
“Yeah. Lucky. And the arm? Stichesh?”
“Several.” He came slowly toward me. As he neared, a shiver of warning prickled over my skin, but I held my ground. He seated himself on the ottoman close to me, within arm’s reach of my wine bottle. The lights in the neighbor’s house went on—I saw the flare of light through the narrow floor-to-ceiling window between the living room and the kitchen. It had gotten dark outside. I hadn’t noticed the time passing. That woman could probably see right into our living room at night.
“We should get blinds. That woman ish always watching.” Again my words ran into each other, but I didn’t care. I took another sip.
“What woman?”
“That biddy next door. Watch, watch, watch, then she ducks behind lace curtains.”
He frowned.
“You’ve seen her, right?”
“No.”
This irritated me. “Of course you have to have seen the watcher next door.”
“Ellie—”
“Wait—” I wobbled my finger at his face. “Just you wait before you go Ellie-ing me.” I set my glass clumsily on the coffee table and leaned forward. “What in the hell were you trying to prove taking me out like that? In that bad weather—the swell so high, the wind so strong? Going so far out? For so long—with no water to drink? Were you trying to scare me? Or kill us both, or what? Even Rabz said we shoulda gone out earlier.”
He regarded me in simmering silence.
Be careful, Ellie. He looks dangerous.
“Is it a power thing, Martin? Is that what this is? Ish this something I’m just learning about you? And you know what I think? I think you set me up to drink wine coolers by not bringing water. Did you set me up? Did you intend to return me to the boat ramp drunk so everyone could see—a whole cliff full of onlookers, a whole heap of witnesses at the boat launch? Did you tell all the doctors at the hospital your wife had done this to you because she was drunk?”
His face turned puce. His features looked weird. I didn’t recognize him.
Stop, Ellie. Stop now.
“When we went for a walk yesterday, Martin, you told me that people would line the cliff when the waves on the bar started breaking. You knew there would be tons of witnesses there.”
“No one forces you to get drunk, Ellie. No one is forcing you to take pills. You’re an addict. You’re ill. Do you understand this? You have a problem and you need help. You know what I did? I asked the doctor at the hospital for a referral for you, to a medical professional who handles addiction issues.” He set a card onto the coffee table next to the wine bottle. Dr. Kenneth Marshall.
I felt a change happening in me—the Shame Monster rearing its head, unfurling its big dark body inside my chest, awakening through my haze. Everyone in town was learning fast that Martin Cresswell-Smith’s wife was a drunk, an addict. First my apparent scene at the Puggo. Then at the boat launch. Now the doctors at the hospital. Poor Martin.
“So why did you take me out in that weather, then? Even Rabz said—”
“Because I wanted to distract you from the meds, for heaven’s sakes. I wanted for us to do something together, to get you out of the house, away from the bloody pills.”
“Liar.”
He blinked. Shock showed on his face. It spurred me.
“You wanted to terrify me. And this morning when you brought me breakfast in bed, why did you not mention my behavior at the Puggo? You acted like nothing was wrong, like nothing bad had happened. You’re messing with my head—you want me to think I’m mad.” I reached for my glass, took another fortifying swig, and waved the glass at him. “You know what thish ish, Martin? It’s called gaslighting.”
The word hung.
Air quivered, hot. The fan up high in the vaulted ceiling whopped slow paddles of air.
“Go to bed,” he said softly, darkly. “You’re out of it and you’re being paranoid, psychotic. We’ll deal with this in the morning—”
“No. No, we deal with this right now.” I jabbed my fingers on the coffee table. “Why are you doing this to me? I wanted a fresh start here, a clean happy new life—”
“Except it’s not clean, is it, Ellie? You arrived all drugged up right out of the airport gate, and now you want to blame me? No one is doing anything to you. You’re doing this all by yourself.”
“Is it because of Rabz?”
His face paled. He went very still.
“I want to know, Martin, right now—tell me now. How long have you been screwing Rabz?”
Silence.
The fan paddled. The air simmered.
It’s the truth. I nailed it. Bull’s-eye. I could see it in his eyes, in his face, in the reaction of his whole body. It was like I’d touched a live wire to his skin and electricity was crackling through him, invisible, but there, building.
A tiny thread of fear unfurled in my gut.
“You’re drunk.”
“Do you want to know how I know?” I asked, more quietly. My instincts told me I should back down, go upstairs, stop. But why should I stop? This was my marriage, my life. I’d come all the way over here to this strange land for this man, and I had a right, a duty, to see this through. I needed answers.
“There was a hair tie—a scrunchie—left on the daybed in
