off waves of dizziness and nausea. Her slacks were torn at one knee. A shoulder seam had split on the jacket during the struggle, a button was missing, and one elbow was ripped out.
She concentrated on these things—the damage to her clothing and the fact that it was one of her favorite suits and she was angry to have to trash it—because in truth none of it was important. She didn’t want to think about the fact that someone had attacked her, had possibly meant to kill her. She didn’t want to think about what that would have meant, never seeing her daughter again, not being there for her father as his life drew to a close.
Guilt gnawed at her for not having included her husband in the list of people she would miss. She didn’t hate him. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was a wonderful father, when he was home, which had been less and less over the last year. It was just that what had been good between them had worn away. All they had now were pretense and tension.
Carey had realized their marriage was over a long while ago. David knew it too. He was as miserable as she was, but they both preferred to ignore the situation. Their marriage had become the elephant in the room that nobody wanted to talk about. If they talked about it, they would have to deal with it, and with the fallout that would rain down on their child.
Instead, they each stayed busy with their work. Carey had a full load with the Dahl trial looming. David, who had been a promising young documentary filmmaker at the start of their marriage, continued trying to drum up support for his latest project idea. He spent much of his time wining and dining, bowing and scraping to the kinds of people who could get films made. Unfortunately, the backing never seemed to come through, and he had had to lower himself to making the occasional local TV commercial.
Carey knew that he resented her success, and his lack thereof. He had become touchy and snappish on the subject of his career. She had tried to be supportive and patient, knowing that his self-esteem had taken a beating. But David had grown too comfortable with playing the victim, with making her walk on eggshells around his ego. She was tired of it, and her own resentments toward him had begun to grow like warts on the ends of her nerves.
If he knew how many times she had bitten her tongue to cut him a break, to give him the opportunity to be a man . . . and how many times he had failed . . .
The pressure of the tears behind her eyes made her head throb all the harder. Carey tried to blink them back. If she was going to cry, she would end up having to blow her nose, which would probably be so painful she would pass out.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.
The numbers 1:13 glowed green on the alarm clock that squatted on her night table. Still no sign of David.
Potential backers, my ass,
she thought. She suspected he was having an affair, and was almost relieved at the idea. He hadn’t touched her in months. She hadn’t wanted him to. His touch only made her feel impatient and irritated. At the same time, the idea of his cheating on her pissed her off no end, because she could too easily imagine him doing it out of spite.
She brought her hands up to her face, wanting to rub her cheeks and forehead, sucking her breath in as her fingers brushed ever so slightly over an abrasion, wincing at the pain in her ribs from taking too deep and too sudden a breath.
Anka tapped softly on the bedroom door and let herself in.
“The detective told me to check on you,” she said quietly.
“I’m fine, Anka.”
“You don’t look so fine.”
“No, I suppose not,” Carey said. “Has Mr. Moore called?”
“No. I heard your cell phone ringing a while ago. Of course, I didn’t answer it.”
“Would you bring it to me, please?”
The nanny frowned. “You should be sleeping.”
“You just came to wake me up,” Carey pointed out. “I only want to check my messages.”
Looking unhappy, muttering something
She concentrated on these things—the damage to her clothing and the fact that it was one of her favorite suits and she was angry to have to trash it—because in truth none of it was important. She didn’t want to think about the fact that someone had attacked her, had possibly meant to kill her. She didn’t want to think about what that would have meant, never seeing her daughter again, not being there for her father as his life drew to a close.
Guilt gnawed at her for not having included her husband in the list of people she would miss. She didn’t hate him. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was a wonderful father, when he was home, which had been less and less over the last year. It was just that what had been good between them had worn away. All they had now were pretense and tension.
Carey had realized their marriage was over a long while ago. David knew it too. He was as miserable as she was, but they both preferred to ignore the situation. Their marriage had become the elephant in the room that nobody wanted to talk about. If they talked about it, they would have to deal with it, and with the fallout that would rain down on their child.
Instead, they each stayed busy with their work. Carey had a full load with the Dahl trial looming. David, who had been a promising young documentary filmmaker at the start of their marriage, continued trying to drum up support for his latest project idea. He spent much of his time wining and dining, bowing and scraping to the kinds of people who could get films made. Unfortunately, the backing never seemed to come through, and he had had to lower himself to making the occasional local TV commercial.
Carey knew that he resented her success, and his lack thereof. He had become touchy and snappish on the subject of his career. She had tried to be supportive and patient, knowing that his self-esteem had taken a beating. But David had grown too comfortable with playing the victim, with making her walk on eggshells around his ego. She was tired of it, and her own resentments toward him had begun to grow like warts on the ends of her nerves.
If he knew how many times she had bitten her tongue to cut him a break, to give him the opportunity to be a man . . . and how many times he had failed . . .
The pressure of the tears behind her eyes made her head throb all the harder. Carey tried to blink them back. If she was going to cry, she would end up having to blow her nose, which would probably be so painful she would pass out.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.
The numbers 1:13 glowed green on the alarm clock that squatted on her night table. Still no sign of David.
Potential backers, my ass,
she thought. She suspected he was having an affair, and was almost relieved at the idea. He hadn’t touched her in months. She hadn’t wanted him to. His touch only made her feel impatient and irritated. At the same time, the idea of his cheating on her pissed her off no end, because she could too easily imagine him doing it out of spite.
She brought her hands up to her face, wanting to rub her cheeks and forehead, sucking her breath in as her fingers brushed ever so slightly over an abrasion, wincing at the pain in her ribs from taking too deep and too sudden a breath.
Anka tapped softly on the bedroom door and let herself in.
“The detective told me to check on you,” she said quietly.
“I’m fine, Anka.”
“You don’t look so fine.”
“No, I suppose not,” Carey said. “Has Mr. Moore called?”
“No. I heard your cell phone ringing a while ago. Of course, I didn’t answer it.”
“Would you bring it to me, please?”
The nanny frowned. “You should be sleeping.”
“You just came to wake me up,” Carey pointed out. “I only want to check my messages.”
Looking unhappy, muttering something
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