mail. The inbox contained a single saved message. The header consisted of one solitary word.
Wassup?
Porter stared. Behind the word was a voice demanding an answer. A masculine voice, Porter was certain. He double-clicked.
I know the old house routine. We live at Home Depot. Good luck. My weekend was the usual bore, the Gymboree thing with the twins, etc. Tried to make a move on Lisa after we put them to bed while she was watching TV. She shut me down. We just can’t get off since the babies came. Happy Monday.
Happy Monday? From a man who was providing details about his sex life. Who was this? Without realizing it, Porter tightened his grip on the mouse until it lost contact with the pad, sending the icon careening drunkenly across the screen.
The message was less than three weeks old. It had originated from tf_activewearmodesto at a server in the Western United States. Porter and Caroline did not know anyone in Modesto.
But someone in Modesto knew them.
I know the old house routine.
The message had been sent in response to a message from Caroline. tf_activewearmodesto was familiar with the age of Caroline’s—their—home. Too familiar.tf_activewearmodesto knew how he, Porter Moross, and his wife spent their time.
The tingling in Porter’s neck grew stronger and slipped down his spine, chilling him to the bone. He shuddered.
There were no other messages in the inbox. Porter clicked on “Addresses,” then “Favorites.”
tf_activewearmodesto was listed in “Favorites.”
Tom Fielding.
Porter frowned, closed his eyes. Tom Fielding had lived on the same floor in Caroline’s dorm at GWU. Tall and gangly. WASPy with reddish blond hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of acne.
That acne that would have cleared up by now.
Porter pointed his mouse at the “Sent Mail” icon and double-clicked. There were several messages, all sent to Tom.
Hi.
It was the most recent, dated earlier on the same day as Tom’s “Wassup?” Caroline wrote about a movie they’d seen and the fact that he, Porter, hadn’t liked it. She described their visit to Restoration Hardware in search of electrical outlet covers for the new half bath outside Porter’s office.
Porter has his heart set on outlet covers that will match the period of the house. But they didn’t have electrical outlets back then.
Porter stared at the screen, his teeth working inside his mouth, shredding the sides of his cheeks until he tasted blood.
His wife had complained about him to another man. While Porter had scoured catalogs of upscale hardware stores so that the new half bath would blend in with the renovation of their historic home, his wife had been sending smile emoticons to a married man.
They had shared a joke at Porter’s expense.
Porter felt a familiar itching along his jaw, as though each hair follicle in his beard was on fire. He raked his fingers through it and rubbed savagely, knowing this would only worsen the hives that were taking root.
He ordered the “Sent Messages” folder by date. There were half a dozen addressed to tf_activewearmodesto dating back almost two years. And these were just the e-mails Caroline had saved. To read and reread.
Porter slumped in his Eames chair, shaking his head. He closed his eyes, slipped his fingers underneath the steel rims of his glasses, and massaged the sore spot on the bridge of his nose. Then he continued reading.
He discovered a series of messages dated the week they returned from their honeymoon.
“Here’s a joke,” tf_activewearmodesto had written in the original e-mail, which had been copied to several other names Porter recognized as GW alum.
Caroline had e-mailed her reply only to Tom.
“I always thought you were hot,” her message began.
Porter felt a slow burn start down low and deep in the pit of his stomach.
You were not too skinny in college and judging by the photo I saw you look great now.
Slut, Porter thought. How could she do such a thing?The heat inside Porter
Wassup?
Porter stared. Behind the word was a voice demanding an answer. A masculine voice, Porter was certain. He double-clicked.
I know the old house routine. We live at Home Depot. Good luck. My weekend was the usual bore, the Gymboree thing with the twins, etc. Tried to make a move on Lisa after we put them to bed while she was watching TV. She shut me down. We just can’t get off since the babies came. Happy Monday.
Happy Monday? From a man who was providing details about his sex life. Who was this? Without realizing it, Porter tightened his grip on the mouse until it lost contact with the pad, sending the icon careening drunkenly across the screen.
The message was less than three weeks old. It had originated from tf_activewearmodesto at a server in the Western United States. Porter and Caroline did not know anyone in Modesto.
But someone in Modesto knew them.
I know the old house routine.
The message had been sent in response to a message from Caroline. tf_activewearmodesto was familiar with the age of Caroline’s—their—home. Too familiar.tf_activewearmodesto knew how he, Porter Moross, and his wife spent their time.
The tingling in Porter’s neck grew stronger and slipped down his spine, chilling him to the bone. He shuddered.
There were no other messages in the inbox. Porter clicked on “Addresses,” then “Favorites.”
tf_activewearmodesto was listed in “Favorites.”
Tom Fielding.
Porter frowned, closed his eyes. Tom Fielding had lived on the same floor in Caroline’s dorm at GWU. Tall and gangly. WASPy with reddish blond hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of acne.
That acne that would have cleared up by now.
Porter pointed his mouse at the “Sent Mail” icon and double-clicked. There were several messages, all sent to Tom.
Hi.
It was the most recent, dated earlier on the same day as Tom’s “Wassup?” Caroline wrote about a movie they’d seen and the fact that he, Porter, hadn’t liked it. She described their visit to Restoration Hardware in search of electrical outlet covers for the new half bath outside Porter’s office.
Porter has his heart set on outlet covers that will match the period of the house. But they didn’t have electrical outlets back then.
Porter stared at the screen, his teeth working inside his mouth, shredding the sides of his cheeks until he tasted blood.
His wife had complained about him to another man. While Porter had scoured catalogs of upscale hardware stores so that the new half bath would blend in with the renovation of their historic home, his wife had been sending smile emoticons to a married man.
They had shared a joke at Porter’s expense.
Porter felt a familiar itching along his jaw, as though each hair follicle in his beard was on fire. He raked his fingers through it and rubbed savagely, knowing this would only worsen the hives that were taking root.
He ordered the “Sent Messages” folder by date. There were half a dozen addressed to tf_activewearmodesto dating back almost two years. And these were just the e-mails Caroline had saved. To read and reread.
Porter slumped in his Eames chair, shaking his head. He closed his eyes, slipped his fingers underneath the steel rims of his glasses, and massaged the sore spot on the bridge of his nose. Then he continued reading.
He discovered a series of messages dated the week they returned from their honeymoon.
“Here’s a joke,” tf_activewearmodesto had written in the original e-mail, which had been copied to several other names Porter recognized as GW alum.
Caroline had e-mailed her reply only to Tom.
“I always thought you were hot,” her message began.
Porter felt a slow burn start down low and deep in the pit of his stomach.
You were not too skinny in college and judging by the photo I saw you look great now.
Slut, Porter thought. How could she do such a thing?The heat inside Porter
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