Saturday, August 11, 2018, 1 a.m.

S

o. It was Barbara. For a while, Nora didn’t move. She stared at the phone number, redefining memories and reinterpreting moments. Barbara had complained at book club that she had no time for herself. Had she meant that she had no time to sneak off with Dave?

Nora stiffened, tightened her jaw. How long had Dave been lying to her? He knew she couldn’t bear lies, had sworn he’d never lie again. But how many late meetings had been with Barbara instead of clients? How many “tennis matches” had been preceded or followed by a traitorous sexual tryst? Had they met at Barbara’s while her boys, Colin and Harry, were in preschool and Paul was out campaigning? Or had they gone to a hotel? Nora hadn’t noticed room charges on their credit card, but Dave would surely have been more careful, charging the rooms to his firm. Which hotel? The Hilton on Columbus Boulevard—no. The Ritz Carlton. Had they laughed about their secret while tangled up in the sheets of a plush, king-sized bed? Mocked her for trusting them? For being so profoundly clueless? Had they made fun of Paul for being so easily duped?

Nora pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, imagining Dave caressing Barbara’s shoulders and back, his wedding band glowing, molten. How did the ring not sear his skin? How could he wear it while touching her? And what about her? Were Barbara’s breasts freckled like her nose? Did they feel real? Oh God. What about that announcement Barbara had made at book club? While they’d been discussing that television show instead of their book, she’d yelped and breathlessly laughed, “I just had an orgasm.”

She’d explained that, at Paul’s request, she’d gone to the spa and had a wax—not just on her legs. She’d bragged, lowering her voice to add that now, sensations were much more intense, so that walking—even sitting with her legs crossed—could cause a climax.

Nora had laughed along with the others then. But now, as she pictured Dave’s hand between Barbara’s smooth waxed thighs, she clenched her teeth, no longer amused.

She swallowed scotch, censored the image. Honestly, she needed to stop. Barbara and Dave? The idea was absurd. Impossible. Barbara’s husband was not just the best-looking man in Philadelphia and possibly the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania; he also adored his wife. Plus, he was nearly a U.S. senator, far ahead in the polls. Why would Barbara cheat on him? She wouldn’t. And if she would, why would she pick Dave? He wasn’t even close to the caliber of Barbara’s husband.

And for another thing, Dave wouldn’t cheat. Not again. He wouldn’t. There had to be another explanation for the texts.

Nora struggled to find one. Her fingers fumbled, touching icons on the phone, punching up texts, scanning them. On Friday, they’d made plans to meet at Barbara’s at noon. The day before, Barbara had sent him a link to Paul’s campaign schedule. Then she had asked if Nora knew anything, and Dave had assured her that Nora had no clue.

Of course she didn’t. She was clueless, as dull as a cabbage. Predictable, plain, old, boring Nora. No one special. She was, after all, Tommy’s sister. You’ll always be the same as me: a misfit, an oddball, a freak.

She read on, the knots in her stomach tightening with each text. There were dozens, going back weeks. Finally, she made herself stop. She’d seen too many, couldn’t stop seeing them. I’ll make time for you, Nora has no clue, Paul’s still away, Come by this afternoon.

She didn’t remember leaving the kitchen or climbing the stairs, but somehow, she made it back to her bedroom where she was standing over Dave, watching him sleep. Nora knew all about his sleep, the rhythm of his breathing, the warm, dusky smell of his skin, the harsh cracks of his snores, the peace on his face. How could he sleep so deeply, not troubled by his deceit? Not bothered by her absence, not even noticing that she wasn’t in bed? Who was this man whose jaw hung slack, who looked like, slept like, and smelled like, but somehow wasn’t her Dave?

Nora’s whole body hurt. Each breath felt as though razors were slashing her lungs. Dave’s face was untroubled and at ease. She had to be mistaken. Maybe she could erase the last hour, climb in bed beside him and wrap herself in his arms. Pretend she’d never looked in his phone.

But she couldn’t. The texts wouldn’t allow it. They flashed in her head in neon red, the evidence stacking up against Dave, showing him to be a liar. A cheater. She wanted to pummel him, tried to make fists but couldn’t because she still held the phones. Tossing them into the folds of their comforter, she clenched her hands and stared at him until her eyes burned. When finally she looked away, the room had drifted out of reach, intangible as a memory—the mahogany bureaus, the velvet divan, the moonlit windows, the fluffed pillows, and the half-naked liar, cheater, heartbreaker, marriage-destroyer husband.

She ought to kill him.

The thought volunteered on its own, unsolicited, offering an outlet for her shock and rage. She could slam the lamp base against his head. How many hits would it take? She pictured the impact, the spattering blood, warm on her nightgown. Dave’s eyes opening in shocked confusion. The satisfaction of hearing bones shatter, of whispering into his ear as he died that, guess what: Nora had a clue.

Dave stirred and rolled over, his back to her.

Nora watched his sculpted shoulders, the slope of his back. Her life hung in shreds. Killing him would accomplish nothing unless he knew why she was doing it. She ought to wake him up, demand to hear the truth, and kill him afterward.

“Mommy?” Sophie was beside her. When had she come in? Her eyes glistened in the dim light. “I heard a noise.”

Nora knelt to meet Sophie’s eyes. “Sorry. It must have been me walking around,” she whispered. “I can’t sleep.”

Sophie’s head tilted. “Did you have a bad dream? Is that why you’re crying?”

Crying? Nora touched her face. Indeed, it was wet.

“It’s just a dream, Mommy. Don’t be scared. Know what I do when I get one?”

Nora took Sophie’s hands. “You come and get me?”

Sophie nodded. “And sometimes, I climb in with Ellie.” She furrowed her little eyebrows. “Mommy, why don’t you climb in with Daddy?” She hesitated, then smiled. “Or, if you want, you can climb in with me.”

Oh my. Sophie was mothering her. Nora had become so pathetic that a not yet five-year-old felt compelled to help her. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and thanked Sophie, giving her a kiss. Actually, it was a good offer. If she went back to her own bed, she’d stay up all night staring, thinking of ways to murder Dave, maybe even doing it.

So she led Sophie back to her room and cuddled up beside her. She lay still, watching a kaleidoscope of images: ants in a farm, spider parts in a tissue, Barbara in her flashy BMW, Tommy in his coffin, Dave with a freshly smashed skull. She held on to Sophie through the night, as if her child’s warm scent and deep, steady breathing could sustain her.