There had been no call from Detective Mendez. Sara had finally tried to call him but was only able to leave a message. She wanted an explanation from somebody. What had happened? What had triggered her husband to become so violent that he would actually punch someone? Did he have a reason? Had he just gone off? Should she be afraid?
She didn’t know who Steve was anymore. He had become so withdrawn, so angry, over the last year and a half, and she didn’t understand why. He had a good life, a successful career. Had he just so grown to resent her and their marriage that he had become this sullen, bitter—now violent—man?
Had he loved Lisa Warwick? Had he loved her so much that her murder—now more than a year ago—had set him on this downward spiral?
Or was there a darker trigger in his mind?
He had never acknowledged his involvement with Lisa, but Sara had no doubt that he had moved on to another affair. Probably more than one. Possibly with Marissa.
The notion had eaten away at Sara’s mind, at her soul, at her self-esteem.
Lisa Warwick was dead. Marissa was dead. Her husband had attacked a sheriff’s detective.
Her heart started tripping. She could hear the voices of Mendez, of the local news anchor.
She felt sick and weak and out of control.
Lights flashed by on the street and turned in at their driveway. She could hear car doors open and close, men’s voices. The car backed out of the driveway and drove away.
Sara turned the lamp on beside her as the front door opened and Steve came in. He looked into the living room at her, then back at the suitcase sitting at the foot of the stairs.
“Is this yours or mine?” he asked, coming into the room.
He looked like he’d been hit by a truck. His purple swollen nose appeared to be held on to his face with adhesive tape. Both eyes were black, but the left one was swollen nearly shut. He had gone to jail for punching a detective, but it was clear the detective had punched back.
Sara thought of Mendez and his thinly veiled anger toward her husband.
“You never sleep here anyway,” she said. “You might as well have a change of clothes with you, wherever you go.”
“ ‘Oh my God, Steve,’” he said sarcastically, feigning shock. “ ‘What happened to your face?’”
“Oh, please,” Sara said, getting up from the couch. She crossed her arms in front of her. “Don’t expect sympathy from me at this hour. You couldn’t even be bothered to call and tell me why there’s blood on the driveway, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Wendy thought you’d been killed. She was sick with panic.”
“But you weren’t.”
“Come out of the hallway,” she said. “Your voice will carry upstairs. Your daughter is asleep.”
He stepped into the living room and she could see him gather himself in the same way he would in court.
“Did you think I was dead?” he asked. “Were you worried sick?”
“Yes, I was worried,” she admitted. “I didn’t know what to think. I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re not my husband. You’re not the man I married. You’re not the man I fell in love with. Who are you? I don’t understand what’s happened to you, Steve. I don’t get it.”
“You never did,” he said with a touch of tragic bitterness in his voice that only made Sara angrier. He would bring out his flair for the dramatic to try to make her feel guilty, to try to pretend he was the wounded one.
“What does that even mean?” she asked. “Are we going back again to your tragic, terrible childhood? I’ve been telling you for fourteen years what a remarkable person I think you are for making it through and making yourself into the human being you are—or were, at least.
“Enough with that, Steve. You’re a grown man. Stop playing the sympathy card already. Stop trading on your mother’s misfortunes. The statute of limitations has run out.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he muttered. “Miss Perfect Family.”
“I’m not apologizing because my mother wasn’t an IV drug user,” Sara said. “It’s not my fault you had a rotten childhood. You wanted my perfect family, remember? You married my perfect family. We had our own perfect family. Now you’re the one destroying it.”
“You’ve always been jealous of the time I spend on the Thomas Center—”
“Don’t start with that,” she warned him. “Don’t put this on me. I’m not taking it. I’m not the bad guy. You want to volunteer? That’s great. You’re a humanitarian. But you don’t do it at the expense of your family. You don’t do it at the expense of your daughter or me. Marriage is supposed to be a partnership. You’re more devoted to Don.”
“That’s not true—”
“Really?” she said, pretending shock. “Who did you call this morning?”
“He’s my attorney.”
“And did you ask him to call your wife and explain to her why your blood is on the driveway and why you’re missing?”
“Maybe I was embarrassed.”
“Maybe you didn’t give a shit,” she said. “I don’t know who you think of anymore, Steve, but it certainly isn’t me and it certainly isn’t Wendy.”
“I love my daughter,” he said vehemently, taking an aggressive step toward her.
The omission of her name from that sentiment cut Sara like a knife. She wouldn’t have believed she had any illusions left about their relationship, but it still hurt.
“Then why do you do these things, Steve?” she asked. “Wendy isn’t stupid. She knows when you don’t come home at night. She knows what that means. An eleven-year-old girl shouldn’t feel compelled to come to her mother and tell her she knows all about affairs, and why does her father have to do that?”
“And I’m sure you haven’t tried to tell her otherwise,” he snapped.
“Why would I? I’m supposed to lie for you? I’m supposed to lie for you and look like a fool to my daughter? I’m not stupid, either. You think I don’t know that you weren’t in Sacramento last weekend? Did you think I wouldn’t check up on you when you’ve done this to me time and time again over the last year and a half?”
“Where do you think I was?” he asked, challenging her.
Sara refused the bait, careful with her answer. “I don’t know where you were.”
“Really, where do you think I was?” It was a taunt more than a question. He moved back and forth in front of her like a shark in a tank. “Do you think I was with Marissa?”
Sara said nothing, but caught herself taking a step back from him.
“You think I was having an affair with her, don’t you?” he said. “That’s why you were suddenly so interested in her, wanting to be friends with her, hanging out with her. Did you think she would just tell you? Did you think she would just turn to you one day and say, ‘Oh, by the way, Sara, I’m fucking your husband’?”
“Stop it,” she said quietly, her voice trembling with anger and something she didn’t want to call fear. He continued his pacing, back and forth, back and forth, inching in on her with each turn. She took another step back toward the bookcase built into the wall behind her. With his battered face he looked monstrous and aggressive.
“That’s what you believe,” he said. “Just like you believed I was having an affair with Lisa Warwick. Why don’t you want to hear it?”
She didn’t say anything. She wanted this conversation to be over and for him to just leave.
“Really, Sara,” he pushed, coming toward her, in her face. She tried to take another step back and couldn’t. Something like satisfaction flashed in his eyes.
“Do you think I was with Marissa?” he asked quietly. “Do you think I was stabbing her forty-seven times and cutting her throat?”
“Stop it!” she said again, staring into his face and not recognizing him. This man was a stranger to her. She didn’t know what he might do.
“Why?” he asked, enjoying her fear. “Am I scaring you? Do you really think I could do that?”
Sara tried to step sideways to get away from him. He grabbed her arm hard and shouted in her face.
