Crash & Burn by Lisa Gardner

wonder I bruised his jaw.
    Then . . . another memory: myself, sitting in a brightly lit sunroom. Green tendrils of hanging plants softening the oversize bank of windows. Tile floor, eclectic colors on the wall. Myself, sitting inthe middle, painting. And smiling. I can actually feel it on my face. I am happy.
    Thomas’s voice, booming from the doorway behind me:
Hey, honey, wanna grab lunch?
    My smile growing. Happier.
    â€œNicky.”
    My mind zooms back to the present. Stark hospital room. Me, lying on the bed, my husband now standing beside me. “Doctor Celik is willing to let you go,” he tells me, which immediately strikes me as odd, because that’s not how their exchange had sounded to me at all. “But you have to promise to rest, and we’ll need to return in a few days for a follow-up.”
    I nod. It hurts my head, but not terribly. Then I promptly crinkle my nose. Thomas is now carrying the paper sack once held by the doctor. I smell blood, earthy and strong. But also . . . scotch. The good stuff. I don’t know whether to roll away in disgust or lean forward in longing.
    â€œYour clothes,” Thomas says, holding up the bag, marked with the symbol for biohazard.
    It takes me a moment; then I get it. From last night, he means. From the accident.
    I can’t help myself. “We can take them? I thought, the police . . . You said there would be questions.”
    â€œYour blood alcohol reading measured .06,” my husband tells me. “Legal limit in New Hampshire is .08. At this time, they have no grounds to charge you, let alone seize personal property.”
    I nod. I wonder if I should be impressed my husband knows legal statutes so well. Or worried.
    â€œBut the items are bloody . . . destroyed.” I’m still confused. Why does he have my shredded clothes? Why does he care?
    He doesn’t answer the question, but gestures to the fresh garments he’d stacked at the foot of my hospital bed.
    â€œThink you can get dressed?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood. I’m going to run down to the pharmacy to fill your prescriptions; then I’ll be back. Give me twenty minutes.”
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    â€œFive thirty.”
    â€œIt’s dark outside.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œVero’s not afraid of the dark,” I inform him.
    Thomas sighs and leaves the room.
    *   *   *
    O UR HOUSE IS a two-story Colonial. I can’t tell the color given that it’s night. But after driving forty minutes along quaint back roads and winding side streets, Thomas pulls into a driveway, kills the engine. Both of us sit there for a moment. Not talking. Just alone in the dark.
    Then Thomas pops open his door, comes around and assists me.
    My ribs still ache. My chest, if I try to inhale too deep. But I find if I keep my movements simple, my pacing slow, I can manage well enough. There are four steps up to a covered front patio. A lone porch light illuminates the door, which appears to be painted the color of wine. Or is it blood? Didn’t we laugh about that once?
    Thomas unlocks the door, gestures for me to enter.
    My house has a vaulted foyer. Slate tile below, black wrought-iron chandelier above, switchback staircase straight ahead. I move to the cherrywood side table without even thinking. Two framed pictures. One appears to be us, younger, happier, laughing on a beach. The frame features broken pottery tiles and I immediately think of Mexico. Good trip. We’d breakfasted on tequila and spent the afternoons racing WaveRunners through crashing surf. We’d been dangerous and silly and madly, passionately in love.
    I miss Mexico. Still do.
    Next up, a black-and-white portrait. Not a couples shot at all. Just me, backlit by something, maybe a table lamp. You can’t see my expression, only my profile, wisps of dark hair curling provocatively. There is something pensive about