Darkness My Old Friend

“He asked for aftercare today,” she said. She was too quick to answer. It sounded like the lie that it was. “So he could play with Nick. I was just heading out to get him.”

“Really? Because it looked to me like you were just sitting around on your ass. I’d think you’d use your free time to work out.”

Paula didn’t say anything, bit back the flood of pure hatred that seemed to come up from her gut and coat the back of her throat with acid. Once upon a time, before they were married, she used to look at him and think how lucky she was. He was so successful, so handsome and charming. She used to think she loved him. But maybe she never did. She didn’t know who he was; he’d presented a false image of himself, and she’d been seduced by that. She never suspected how cold his heart was.

She tried to move past him, but he put an arm up to block her way to the stairs. She heard Claire start to cry. Her wails came staticky and broken up over the monitor that was at the end of its range.

“She’s crying,” Paula said.

“You think I can’t hear that? Go turn that thing off.”

Her heart was pumping now, adrenaline racing through her system. But she did as she was told. She could still hear Claire crying upstairs, sounding so far away. Her body started to tingle the way it did when one of her kids cried; her breasts were engorged and starting to leak. It was time to nurse. She was glad she’d remembered to put the pads in her bra, so that she didn’t soak through her shirt in front of Kevin.

“What are you doing home?” Paula asked.

She wanted to go to Claire, but she stayed where she was. On the bar that separated the great room from the kitchen lay a hammer. She’d been trying to hang a few framed pictures of the kids earlier-there were no photos anywhere. She’d just never gotten around to it. No, that wasn’t the reason. By the time they’d moved into this big house that they couldn’t afford, she knew they weren’t a real family. She couldn’t bear the idea of hanging photos that were so fake as to be laughable. But one of her friends, one of her mom friends, had made a comment. You’re so smart not to have your walls cluttered with photos! I can’t walk an inch in my house without seeing one of their faces! Which was basically just a veiled way to say she thought it was strange.

“I got an interesting call today,” said Kevin.

“From who?”

From where he was standing by the room exit, she knew he couldn’t see the bar area. She put her hand on the edge.

“The bank. Your old bank.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really?” But she felt her whole middle bottom out.

“Seems like there’s some money there you failed to mention.”

She thought about lying, about doing some song and dance. But she decided against it. She just kept her mouth shut, offered a quick shrug. Upstairs, Claire was howling now. She wasn’t used to waiting for her mom.

His expression softened then.

“I know that things haven’t been great between us, Paula. But how could you keep that from me?” He’d modulated his voice to sound sweet and pleading. She could actually see him tearing up. But those eyes were dead. The game was up; she knew that.

She’d been doing some reading. The sociopath has no real feelings. He does not experience guilt or remorse, love or empathy. He knows only his own needs and goals. But he’s a skilled mimic, a brilliant actor. And as easily as sociopaths hide in plain sight, they all have one thing in common: the pity play. When confronted or discovered, they will always try to make you feel sorry for them in order to control you. Paula had read about this in her research. She was fairly sure that’s what her husband was. But it wasn’t until this moment that she dared to admit it.

“I’ve given you everything,” he said. He took a step forward; she took one back. “I’ve worked so hard for us. But it hasn’t been enough. I’ve failed. The business is going under. We’re nearing personal bankruptcy.”

She knew all this. She stayed silent.

“The truth is, baby, we need that money. It could save us.”

He couldn’t get to it without her. She was certain of that. Husband or not, his name was not on her account, and he did not have access to that money. Otherwise there would be no reason for this show. He’d just have taken it. And if she didn’t sign that money over to him, there was only one other way for him to get it. She moved her hand so that now it was resting on the hammer.

“I’m sorry, Kevin,” she said. “It was Janie’s, and she just wanted me and the kids to have it. That money belongs to my family.”

He released a sad little laugh. “But I’m your family.”

A couple of months ago, he might have been able to manipulate her this way. But not today.

“I know about the debt,” she said. “I also know about your affair. I know about the lies you’ve been telling her about me.”

She saw something flash across his face. It was rage. This was the other thing about sociopaths. You are advised not to confront their fantasies-because sociopaths will do anything necessary to protect their self- narrative. All the experts agree that you must get as far away as possible, sever all contact, protect yourself at all costs. Upstairs, Claire had gone quiet. Paula could hear just a miserable whimper. Claire was wet and hungry. Paula needed to get Cameron from school. In another minute she would be late to get her boy. She’d never once been late to pick him up. The thought of him standing there waiting made her sick.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kevin said. His tone was cloying, his voice just a whisper. “Are you okay, honey? What’s wrong?”

He was coming toward her. She tightened her grip on the hammer. And then she saw him pull that gun from his waist. The moment expanded. She was aware of her own breath, the beating of her heart. For a crazy split second, she thought about that game-rock, paper, scissors. They were playing a different version: gun, hammer, toy truck.

She’d been stepping over that little blue truck all day, having added it to her mental model of the room. She’d stepped over it with the laundry basket, the cup of tea. And every time she did, she thought, I should really pick that up. Someone’s going to step on that and go flying. But she never did get around to doing that.

chapter fourteen

“How’s Willow?”

How dare you even ask? is what Bethany wanted to say but didn’t. Enduring her ex- husband’s weekly guilt call was almost more than she could take this afternoon. She still felt off center after her meeting with Henry Ivy, was regretting her decision to let Willow stay after school to study at the library. She kept watching the clock. She was tempted to call the library again. But she didn’t want to be that kind of mom. Once was careful. Twice was paranoid. The late bus would pull up at 4:35. She couldn’t quite see it from the house, but she could hear it if the television was off, if she was listening for it. And today she was listening for it.

“She’s adjusting.”

“Not getting into trouble?”

“It’s not really your problem anymore if she is.” She couldn’t keep the sharp edge from her tone. It crept in against her will, a thug pulling a switchblade, not afraid to use it. Usually he’d snap back and the conversation would turn into an alley fight, dirty and mean, ending abruptly. They’d try again next week, for Willow’s sake. But he surprised her this time, by waiting a beat before answering.

“I still care, Bethany. About you. About Willow. Maybe it doesn’t seem like it. But I do.”

She felt her core melt a bit. And then she got it. What’s-her-face-Miss 34DD-had taken a walk. She’d picked up on the fact that all the money and buff good looks in the world didn’t make up for everything Richard was lacking. Richard Coben looked damn good-even pushing sixty, he was in better shape than most men half his age. That head of prematurely gray hair was exotic, sophisticated. Those icy blue eyes bored into you, seemed to see