MILD-MANNERED CASSIE, who'd always been so careful to feed the birds in winter, who couldn't even think of killing the moles that tunneled through her garden and ate her bulbs, who'd bought one of those beeper boxes to keep the mice out of her basement so she wouldn't have to catch them on sticky tape or trap them or poison them, was wondering how to stop this unconscionable girlfriend from doing what Cassie couldn't do: get her husband's attention from wherever he'd gone and bring him back to life so he could leave her in ruin. She didn't want her anywhere near Mitch or the hospital, or anything. Who was this woman with the power to destroy her?
Cassie went through Mitch's e-mails, and it wasn't too hard to find the one she was looking for. Her rival signed her messages M. The first one was dated Friday night. It read, "Still in Paris. Call me when you get home. M knocks your socks off."
Huh? Cassie's stitches were itching terribly. Knocks his socks off? M's Saturday morning e-mail said, "No answer at your house or mine. Honey, where are you? I'm worried. M knocks your socks off."
Saturday afternoon, M wrote again. "Precious pumpkin, no answer anywhere. What's going on? Are you all right? M knocks your socks off."
Sunday's crop included one about Teddy. M said, "I called Teddy at home. He wasn't there, either. Where is everybody? PLEASE, you know what a WORRIER I am. Ira hasn't heard from you. Parky hasn't heard from you. Stephen and Bill haven't heard a thing. I'm frantic. The weather in P is just gorgeous. I saw a little apartment I liked in the 16th near the park, but we'll talk about that later. I'm on my way home. Probably ovulating on Tuesday. Hint. Hint. Can't wait to see you. M knocks your socks off."
Apartment in the 16th? Ovulating Tuesday? It was a funny thing about anger. Every time Cassie thought her rage was as hot as it could get, more reality took her deeper into it. She felt her body would ignite with it. And Mitch must have been just as excited in his own way, too. He must have been like that Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. All around him the waters of his other life had been rising around him, ensnaring him, drawing him ever deeper into the currents that would eventually kill him. He'd gotten bolder and bolder in his scam. The only thing that got in his way was that little thing called the IRS.
She, his wife of twenty-six years, was nothing. She was a nonentity he thought he could fool as long as he wanted, then just end at will. He must have relished the idea of keeping that flood of knowledge back from her just by closing a door in the house. But now the door was open, the real story was out. The IRS man, Charlie Schwab, was searching for his millions. She was boiling with rage, and he wasn't getting away with anything.
Parky was their lawyer. Ira Mandel was their accountant. Stephen and Bill were both salesmen in the company. And Teddy. Teddy was her own son. No wonder the boy sometimes had the look of a half-wit, a dolt who didn't know his ass from his elbow. He'd been hiding out. What if even Teddy had been in on the conspiracy? Hurt enlarged her and spun her out of her natural orbit. She was a volcano, a hurricane, a tornado-one of those really big natural disasters about to occur.
As she processed the extent of her husband's betrayal, it became clear to Cassie that she had no choice but to kill him. Tomorrow morning she had to go into his ICU room and pull the plug on that respirator. Put the man out of his misery. It would be an act of love, a mercy killing. No one in the world could fault her, and if not she, then Mark or a nurse would do it for her. They did it all the time; Mark himself had told her this was one of the choices she could make. It was a viable and legal option. No wonder Parky Higgins had acted as he had. She got it. She finally got it. She had the motive and the power to snuff her own husband, and snuff him she would.