one was no. He had never admitted to the affair. To this day, he had never accepted culpability. Typical lawyer. His accomplice was dead. There were no witnesses to testify against him. But Sara knew, and Steve knew she knew. And she got a lovely art studio out of it, but her self-esteem had taken a beating.
She accepted that and lived with it, but she wore that mantle of the betrayed wife like it was made of chain mail and coarse hair. It was heavy and uncomfortable, but she couldn’t get out of it. She told herself she did it for Wendy. She hoped that was true. She hoped that was right.
Wendy loved her father. She very much enjoyed being the center of her parents’ world. She didn’t need to know that her parents’ marriage no longer existed in a true sense of the word. At least, that was what they all pretended.
Sara tried again to focus on her work, walked around to see it from a different angle. It didn’t look like anything.
She wondered if it would have looked like something to Marissa.
“Ms. Fordham is deceased.”
Murdered.
Oh my God .
A car door slammed in the driveway, making her jump. She pressed her bleeding hand to her heart and glanced at her watch. Must be car pool. Wendy coming home. Time to pull herself together. She forced a smile as she turned. It froze and cracked as her husband came into the garage.
“Oh. I thought you were Wendy. You’re early.”
“I heard some bad news,” he said. “About Marissa Fordham.”
“Where did you hear it?” she asked stupidly, as if no one else would know by now. As if it were somehow her terrible secret to keep.
“Detective Mendez told me you were there, at her house.”
“Marissa and I were supposed to work this morning. I got there and ... he told me.”
“Are you all right?”
“No. Of course not. Are you?”
Steve had known Marissa. As part of his volunteer work for the center he had helped with setting up the copyright on the poster so the proceeds of sales would go directly to the Thomas Center.
She had wondered if that was all her husband had done with Marissa. The curse of the woman scorned: to look at every woman her husband had contact with and wonder if he was sleeping with her too. Marissa was beautiful, headstrong, sexy—a description people had used for Sara what seemed an awfully long time ago ... How strange that was, she thought now, remembering that she and Marissa were close to the same age.
Her husband shook his head, hands on his hips. He was standing not three feet away from her. There had been a time when they both would have closed that distance and she would have been in his arms.
“No,” he said. “It’s terrible.”
“What’s going to happen to Haley?”
“I don’t know.”
She went to push a chunk of hair out of her eyes and smeared blood across her cheek.
“You’re bleeding,” Steve said.
Once he would have taken her hand and kissed her wounded finger.
“I cut myself.”
“Why don’t you wear gloves when you’re working on this thing?” he asked, more annoyed than concerned.
Suffering for your art? Mendez had asked her.
She wondered what either of them would think if she told them the physical pain was a relief.
Another car door slammed out on the street, and the opportunity was lost—not that she ever would have taken it. Her daughter was home. Time to put on a happier face.
17
Wendy went to her room as soon as dinner was over and the kitchen was cleaned up. She tended not to hang around downstairs when both her mom and dad were home because they weren’t happy and everyone was tense and it sucked. And it was her fault, which sucked even worse.
Her parents stayed together because of her, because that was what she wanted. Only it wasn’t. She wanted them to go back in time and be happy the way they used to be— that was what she wanted. If she could have time-traveled like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future , she would have gone back and changed so many things.
She would
She accepted that and lived with it, but she wore that mantle of the betrayed wife like it was made of chain mail and coarse hair. It was heavy and uncomfortable, but she couldn’t get out of it. She told herself she did it for Wendy. She hoped that was true. She hoped that was right.
Wendy loved her father. She very much enjoyed being the center of her parents’ world. She didn’t need to know that her parents’ marriage no longer existed in a true sense of the word. At least, that was what they all pretended.
Sara tried again to focus on her work, walked around to see it from a different angle. It didn’t look like anything.
She wondered if it would have looked like something to Marissa.
“Ms. Fordham is deceased.”
Murdered.
Oh my God .
A car door slammed in the driveway, making her jump. She pressed her bleeding hand to her heart and glanced at her watch. Must be car pool. Wendy coming home. Time to pull herself together. She forced a smile as she turned. It froze and cracked as her husband came into the garage.
“Oh. I thought you were Wendy. You’re early.”
“I heard some bad news,” he said. “About Marissa Fordham.”
“Where did you hear it?” she asked stupidly, as if no one else would know by now. As if it were somehow her terrible secret to keep.
“Detective Mendez told me you were there, at her house.”
“Marissa and I were supposed to work this morning. I got there and ... he told me.”
“Are you all right?”
“No. Of course not. Are you?”
Steve had known Marissa. As part of his volunteer work for the center he had helped with setting up the copyright on the poster so the proceeds of sales would go directly to the Thomas Center.
She had wondered if that was all her husband had done with Marissa. The curse of the woman scorned: to look at every woman her husband had contact with and wonder if he was sleeping with her too. Marissa was beautiful, headstrong, sexy—a description people had used for Sara what seemed an awfully long time ago ... How strange that was, she thought now, remembering that she and Marissa were close to the same age.
Her husband shook his head, hands on his hips. He was standing not three feet away from her. There had been a time when they both would have closed that distance and she would have been in his arms.
“No,” he said. “It’s terrible.”
“What’s going to happen to Haley?”
“I don’t know.”
She went to push a chunk of hair out of her eyes and smeared blood across her cheek.
“You’re bleeding,” Steve said.
Once he would have taken her hand and kissed her wounded finger.
“I cut myself.”
“Why don’t you wear gloves when you’re working on this thing?” he asked, more annoyed than concerned.
Suffering for your art? Mendez had asked her.
She wondered what either of them would think if she told them the physical pain was a relief.
Another car door slammed out on the street, and the opportunity was lost—not that she ever would have taken it. Her daughter was home. Time to put on a happier face.
17
Wendy went to her room as soon as dinner was over and the kitchen was cleaned up. She tended not to hang around downstairs when both her mom and dad were home because they weren’t happy and everyone was tense and it sucked. And it was her fault, which sucked even worse.
Her parents stayed together because of her, because that was what she wanted. Only it wasn’t. She wanted them to go back in time and be happy the way they used to be— that was what she wanted. If she could have time-traveled like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future , she would have gone back and changed so many things.
She would
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