The first time he took me to bed, Paul found the scar. He traced it with a finger that felt like a white-hot knife, searing my flesh from collarbone to the space between my breasts. A rush of blood coursed through my eardrums, filling my mouth with the taste of tin and when I closed my eyes, the pictures inside my eyelids bloomed like blood-red fireworks. Short, panting breaths tore from the cage in my chest and I bit my lip against an escaping whimper which Paul mistook for passion. His lips came down over the scar, traveling the length of it, and beyond.

After, as we lay on the cooling sheets, Paul asked how I got it. I told him I’d been in a three-car accident caused by a couple of deer on a mountain pass. I told him the hook where you hang your dry-cleaning caught me as I pitched up and forward, thrown by the force of impact, and how I’d broken all the fingers of my left hand which had never quite healed right. I told him these things as I studied the plaster-point constellations on his ceiling, a dull stone in the pit of my stomach pinning me to the mattress. I told him these things, and I lied.

~~~~

Nine days after our honeymoon, we attended a fundraiser picnic for the children’s wing at the hospital. Clusters of blue and white balloons festooned the walk, bobbing in the wake of racing youngsters. A jazz band tooted under cover of the gazebo, sending nostalgic tunes floating above our heads. Paul wore his good-guy face and I was careful to smile and chat, playing my role.

I’m a good liar, but it brings me no pleasure. After my maneuvers over the past thirteen months, I should be as jaded as a Chinese relic, but the sour twist in my stomach still knocks me low and each step I take is a tiptoe across a thin, volcanic crust, a tenuous perch with a roiling mass just beneath.

I am not the only pretender in this relationship. I understand Paul was stretching the truth when he told me how his college football performance came ‘this close’ to making him a draft pick for The Broncos. And, like most husbands, he’s adept at skirting the truth when commenting on my cooking, my wardrobe, or girls he’s known in the past. I consider these tactics a normal part of married life, though I admit our relationship is far short of normal.

There are moments, with Paul, when prickles rise and creep along my spine. When he talks about how he spent his childhood in Nebraska. When I look past his hollow smile and see the ice behind his eyes. When he claims his father, now deceased, left him a small trust fund.

We’re engaged in battle, he and I. May the best liar win. And, now, here’s the truth: I’ve staked every last shred of myself on winning this thing.

The sun sliced down through a network of clouds, stippling the picnic tables and playing shadows over the faces milling about the hospital grounds. After the speeches and the cake-cutting, I made it a point to seek out Paul’s administrative supervisor. I found her surveying the flowerbeds and placed myself so that our paths would intersect.

“Adalet, so good to see you. Nice tan you brought back from Crete. Was it wonderful?

“Fabulous! I’ve always dreamed of visiting the site of the labyrinth, to match wits with the Minotaur, wind out my own ball of string and explore.”

Gloria’s penciled eyebrows rose half an inch up her middle-aged forehead. She bent her head and began pinching dead leaves off the rosebushes. I needed her to confirm something for me, and wondered how to work around to it.

“I know it’s just a myth,” I continued, “but we visited the Labyrinthos Caves at Gortyn and the Heraklion Museum. The island is breathtaking and full of mystery. I loved it! Thanks so much for making it all possible.”

Her hands fell away from the flowers and she looked at me with astonished eyes. “What did I do?”

“Paul told me about the bonus you gave him.”

Two pink spots bloomed on Gloria’s cheeks, bright as the roses beside her. She looked across the manicured lawn, shading her eyes with a sunburned hand. All the confirmation I needed.

“You must have misunderstood him.”

“Oh?” I said. “Perhaps I did.”

I dismissed the subject with a wave of my hand and glanced at the bronzed nameplate set into the stone rim of the bed. It identified the flowers as “Adam’s Smile.” His last, I wondered, before being booted out of the Garden of Eden?

~~~~

We didn’t speak during the drive home, and when we arrived, I stood at the living room window, waiting while Paul put away the croquet set. Through the sheer white panel, the grass looked very green, every blade and leaf tucked and tidy, the flagstones gleaming to the sky. I felt Paul behind me.

“I spoke with Gloria today,” I told him. “I thanked her for the lovely bonus.”

His reflection was cloudy in the window glass, but I knew his brows had pulled towards the sides of his nose, forming a V, and the blood had risen in his face. I saw it without turning.

“She told me I was mistaken, Paul. It was embarrassing.”

I felt his hand rising to my shoulder and I stepped away, turning now to face him. “Let’s get on the same page. Why can’t you just be honest about where you got the money?”

He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Why are you poking into this? I try to do something nice for us and you’re dissecting every little thing. It kind of takes the romance out of it, don’t you think, dear?” Paul’s tone held a nasty edge and I struggled to find the right way to respond, deciding on a mix of exasperation and concern.

“It feels like you don’t really care what I think, like you’re hiding something and it worries me.”

“Well, stop worrying. Why does it matter where I got the money? Maybe I took it out of the trust fund.”

“Did you, Paul?”

His gaze flicked away, and then back, and his eyes locked on mine with a rock-hard glint, a slight twitch working at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I did.”

“Really.” I said it flat as paper. Flat as the license declaring us Mr. and Mrs. Paul Spencer. And paper covers rock. I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a tearful whisper.

“It matters, Paul, because I’m your wife. We’re in this together now and your choices affect my life. So, I’m asking again…please. Where did you get the money?”

“I already told you. Are you calling me a liar?”

“I think you’re lying, yes.”

The blow came fast, tearing into my stomach. The breath shrieked out of me, leaving me airless, gawping like a fish, lungs as useless as a couple of popped paper bags. Paul grabbed a handful of my hair, jerking my head sideways and pulling me up from my stupefied crouch. Tears dribbled into my hairline, stinging the tender roots where Paul was ripping at my scalp.

“I don’t like being called a liar,” he snarled.

He flung me down and I landed awkwardly against the coffee table, knocking one of his glossy photography books off the edge. He retrieved the book and carefully repositioned it before stalking out of the room. I relaxed against the floor, wiping tears from my eyes and coaxing breath into my battered lungs. I was learning more about my husband every day, and I noticed he hadn’t denied being a liar. His rage stemmed from having it pointed out.

~~~~

I watched from the attic window as Paul’s Jeep Grand Cherokee paused at the stop sign and turned left onto Mallow Drive. I’d retreated and slept here after last night’s confrontation, wrapped in a blanket and a layer of pain. A twittering of birds fell light as a handful of feathers over the fragile silence of the morning, and downstairs, the aroma of coffee followed me as I padded into the pantry and retrieved the cell phone I keep hidden inside a plastic bag at the bottom of the rice bin. I dialed the number and didn’t bother with hello.

“His defensive hackles are up and quivering. He hit me, Rona. I admit I provoked him a little, but I hate to think what he’d do if I really tipped my hand.”

“Girl, know that I’m sending you this from a place of love, but have you lost your mind? I cannot believe you married the man. You sure as shrink wrap stuck your head in the lion’s mouth.”

“Ah, but at least it’s not buried in the sand. Read the history books, my friend. Women have been marrying their hated enemies for centuries. Remember that sage little piece of advice: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not cynical about it.” A brief silence. “You really doubled down on this one, Adalet. I’m worried you’re taking it too far.”

“I couldn’t walk away from it, not when I’m this close. I’m all in, Rona, and the money’s starting to show. As his loving and devoted wife, I have a pretty good crack at figuring out where it’s coming from. He’s got to open up, or make a slip. But, Rona…he’s dangerous. I saw the whole story in his eyes. Right now, he thinks he loves me, but he’s going to kill me someday.”

“Where is he now?”

“He went hiking, like any other Sunday. Hasn’t said a word since he gut punched me.”

“Girl, you are in over your head. Grab your bags and get out of there.”

“I hear you. I spent all night mentally packing my suitcase, but Rona, I just can’t. You know I can’t. I can’t let go of my grief. I can’t fall in love. I can’t get a real job or build a life. It’s an achievement just to sleep through the night. Until I resolve this, it’s like I’m suspended in a thick, sticky substance that burns like hell.”

“Well, child, you know I’ll always stand by you…with a fire extinguisher.”

~~~~

Paul came home that night with a huge bunch of flowers. He set them on the dining room table and enveloped me from behind as I stood at the kitchen sink, washing up. He nuzzled my neck and I tensed, watching the hairs on my forearms rise up as if magnetized. I found myself unable to swallow and fought the impulse to gag. I practiced some slow breathing while I pushed my mind into another place, shifting mental gears so that I could interact with Paul while leaving the butcher knife in its wooden block on the counter. He murmured apologies, nibbling my earlobe, then turning me for a full-on kiss. I switched off inside and let him lead me to bed, where I lay numb, staring at the ceiling again as we mended our fences, each willing, for our own reasons, to overlook last night’s incident.

He sprawled across his king-size domain with his hand draped over my stomach, seemingly unaware that he was caressing the very spot he’d pummeled the night before. “It’s time we had a bun in the oven. Don’t you agree?”

The buzz of a fly, bouncing between the curtain and the transparent barrier to freedom, assaulted my eardrums, as loud and irksome as a jackhammer. I felt the edges of my composure peeling up like a dry, brittle leaf. I smiled, tried to make it tender. “Paul, we’ve been married for all of ten days. We need some time to ourselves before we think about starting a family.”

He stroked my cheek. “What’s to think about? You’ll make a great mother and nurturer. I’ll make a great father and provider. And on that subject…I’ve been talking to a realtor. We’ve got some house hunting to do.”

“Woah, hold up. You’re moving way too fast for me. Can’t we just let things happen? Do we always have to be pushing everything along?”

“Yes, Adalet,” he said bristling. In patronizing tones, like a college professor addressing a roomful of freshmen, he laid out his philosophy. “You always have to push things along if you want to have any control in the matter. Letting things happen is for the lazy and the stupid. And we,” he gave my belly an emphatic pat, “are neither.”

I lay there, drenched in self-loathing. Bad enough I stooped to sleeping with the man; bearing his child was out of the question. Well then, time to push things along.

~~~~

Paul scheduled a flurry of appointments with a realtor, while I adopted a strategy of pointing out the deficiencies in every house. I knew that eventually he’d find the perfect fit and my evasion tactics would fail, but I’d draw it out as long as I could.

In the meantime, we continued living in Paul’s condo, a cut above your typical “bachelor pad.” And he, unlike the typical bachelor, keeps it immaculate. The entry comprises a space filled with sunlight, the vaulted ceilings continuing into the living room, which seems vast, an effect achieved with spare, contemporary furniture and a preponderance of reflective chrome and mirrored surfaces. Dead center is an arrangement of love seats the color of new-fallen snow, positioned at perpendicular angles around a glass coffee table. On its pristine surface, placed equidistant with ruler precision, are three landscape photography books, slick covers featuring spectacular peaks and rock formations. On the facing wall, like an echo, three framed prints line up, each a match to its corresponding book—Pike’s Peak, Silverwood, and Garden of the Gods.

This theme persists throughout the house and therein rests my challenge. How does one snoop, rifle, and thoroughly investigate the premises of a martinet without getting caught? When any item replaced half an inch off true is immediately perceived, will suspicion ensue? The circumstances required the utmost care and accuracy.

I searched drawers and files for paper clues. I tapped walls for hollow points, checked under the sinks for false plumbing, removed air vents, light fixtures, and wall hangings. I took down curtain rods and looked through them like telescopes. I knew Paul had a fortune in gold and jewels and I knew the price he paid for it.

But it had cost me so much more and I intended to find it.

~~~~

The heels of my Jimmy Choo knock-offs tapped an ostinato on the carnelian tiles of the terrace at Gino’s. Already, the stones held a degree of heat that radiated upward, spreading a blanket of subtle warmth at knee level. I chose a seat where I could be partially shaded, leaving the sunny side chair for Paul. I thanked the hostess and began perusing the menu. The air was perfumed with onions and garlic, lightly sautéed in olive oil with a lovely sauvignon blanc, if the menu was anything to go by. A fragrant basket of hot breadsticks arrived, escorted by a small earthenware bowl of shaved parmesan swimming in olive oil. I broke and dipped, popping the morsel into my mouth. Sea salt, oregano, and garlic played against my tongue while I moaned an accompaniment. I could make a meal out of these. I pushed the basket to the far side of the table, out of easy reach. Closing my eyes, I turned face to the sun and prepared for Paul’s arrival.

He came from behind and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. Scooting his chair closer to mine, he sat, grasping my hand. “Happy six-week anniversary, sweetheart.”

I felt my face go rigid and forced myself to relax. “Is it? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“No worries. Really I just wanted an excuse to give you this.”

He placed a blue velvet jeweler’s box on the table and I flashed on a childhood memory. My dog, a spotted cocker spaniel I’d named Chocolate Chip, had once gifted me with a dead mouse in much the same manner. I’d found it both endearing and gruesome and a rush of similar emotions engulfed me now. I opened the box and lifted the sparkling tennis bracelet from the plush interior. Paul clasped it to my wrist, shackle-like, and we admired the diamonds glinting in the sun.

“Thank you, Paul. It’s beautiful. I have something for you, too.”

I choked a little on that. My mouth had gone dry. I held up a finger while I took a gulp of water and a calming breath. My eyes watered and I turned them with what I hoped was a rapturous smile to Paul’s inquiring face.

“I’m pregnant,” I said.

~~~~

The next morning, after Paul left for work, I made another trip to the rice bin.

“Girl, you’ll be french-fried and fricasseed.”

“Interesting way to phrase it.”

“Uh-huh, I’m keepin’ it clean. I swore off swearing when I got knocked up. And honey, my baby’s bona fide.”

Rona was a month shy of her first wedding anniversary and had recently found out she was pregnant. For real. She resumed maligning my common sense and intelligence as only a best friend can. “You just set a ticking time bomb. You know that, right? How long do you think you can keep up the charade?”

“Another three or four months, anyway. But, Rona, bringing a baby into the picture gives me leverage.”

“I get that. And if he thinks he’s planted his seed, maybe he’ll give his spade a rest.”

“You’re starting to grasp the wily genius of my plan. I’m still working to dig up the proof, but I’m next to certain Paul killed my brother. A few crumbs of reasonable doubt are all the man has going for him. As soon as I can remove them, he’s going down and I’ll make sure he appreciates what suffering feels like.”

“Well, girl, you ought to know.”

~~~~

Thursday morning I found another crumb.

It was a warm day and the drone of the neighbor’s lawnmower nearly put me to sleep as I combed through a sheaf of paperwork. I almost missed it and then had to read it twice to make sure I understood. Paul had put a substantial down-payment on a house in Silverwood Estates.

I remembered the house. It was a lovely red-brick colonial with three bedrooms, state of the art kitchen, and a spacious backyard. It was in a desirable neighborhood with top-notch schools, swimming pool, golf course, and nearby music academy. Ideal as it was, there was really nothing to set it apart from other homes we’d seen. Yet Paul had walked through it with a proprietorial air and an odd, suppressed glee, and something about it prickled at the back of my mental bulletin board.

The day crawled by. I was so anxious to get to it that I could hardly swallow dinner. But I managed to wait until Paul was fed and had a few drinks in him. We went up to undress for bed and I showed him the document I’d found.

“I can’t believe you did this without discussing it with me.”

His face darkened and the muscles of his jaw bunched hard beneath his five o’clock shadow.

“You’re digging through my papers?”

“Paul, that’s my point. I shouldn’t have to dig through your papers to find something that pertains to us both.”

I tensed, hoping I wouldn’t have to endure another round of blows as the price for peeling back this layer. I watched him unclench his jaw and turn his lips up in a smile.

“I wanted to surprise you, honey. It’s that red-brick beauty. I know you didn’t like the fireplace and living room carpet, but we can redecorate.”

“You’re not getting what I’m saying. Can’t you see this is a decision we should make together?”

I looked at my husband and felt despair. I wanted a house and children. I wanted to bake cookies and put up jam, go to soccer games and plant kisses on scraped knees. I wanted to climb into bed after a long day and curl up in the warmth, feel the heat, of the man I love. I looked at my husband and saw the man who murdered my brother. We’re engaged in battle, he and I.

“We’re expecting a baby, Paul. What if something happened to you and suddenly I’m in charge? I need to know what’s available, how to access it, what debts we owe. Be reasonable. You’re keeping me in the dark and I need to understand what’s going on.”

Paul stalked to the window and stood, staring out. As we’d talked, the night had started its creeping descent and the edges of his dark form blended into the twilit shadow like a wraith. He was a stranger, standing there, and I felt a lick of fear burn through me. I stepped closer and held out my hand, fingertips just skimming the molecules near his shoulder. “Please, Paul.”

He walked to the bed and sank down against the pillows. I sat beside him, kicked off my shoes, and reached for the bedside lamp. He grabbed my hand. “Don’t.”

We sat in darkened silence for so long that I began to think I’d have to try a new tactic. Downstairs, the hall clock chimed nine times. Paul let out a colossal sigh and started talking.

“When I was in college, I shared an apartment with two other guys. Bill and Gary. Bill was a Phys-Ed major who never went to class. A beach bum, always out with a surfboard or dive gear. The guy spent all his time underwater. Gary and I were both pre-med and shared some classes, lab time, and stuff. We were pretty close.”

“One day, I came home after class and Gary met me at the door and said he had to show me something. He was real excited, talked in this crazy whisper. He told me that when Bill was in his room earlier, he’d heard a strange clinking noise and then the sound of moving furniture. He wondered about it, and after Bill left, he snooped around, trying to figure out what could have made the noise. He’d started with idle curiosity, but as he looked, he became intrigued. He pushed aside Bill’s desk and turned back the carpet. A cleverly crafted trap door covered a hidden cupboard. And inside the cupboard was a metal box, locked up tight. Beside the box, were two cloth bags and a sheaf of maps, charting underwater territory. Gary opened one of the bags and showed me what had made the clinking sound.”

Paul sat against the headboard, facing the window, and though it was dark in the room, the streetlight cast enough glow for me to see his lips clamp together. He leaned back and crossed his arms, lapsing into silence.

I waited, but it seemed clear he would need a further prompt. “Coins?” I guessed.

“Yes, coins. Old coins—very valuable—and some jewelry. Rings and necklaces.” He spoke in a tired, mocking way and a feather of dread danced along the back of my neck. “We no longer wondered why Bill spent so much time in the water or how he came up with the rent money.”

Paul’s right foot began twitching, rapidly and mechanically. The bed vibrated like he’d dropped a quarter in the slot. “We closed up the treasure trove and tried to pretend we didn’t know anything about it. But it was there, in our minds. And it ate at us. Two weeks later, I came home to find Bill in bed, bludgeoned to death. The cupboard under the carpet was empty, and Gary was gone.”

“What are you saying? That Gary murdered Bill and escaped with the loot?”

“There’s really no other way to look at it. The police figured the same. They put out a net for Gary, but he’d vanished.”

“What about you? Didn’t the police consider you a suspect?”

“Sure. But I’d been in the lab during the whole time in question and the procedures there are pretty secure. You sign in with a slide card, do your thing, and sign out by the same method. In the meantime, you’re in there with no way out. And with Gary disappearing like that…well, follow the logic.”

I was following. His reasoning was sound, but his story fell short of where I needed it to go.

“Okay, Paul, but that still doesn’t explain where you’re getting the money.”

More silence. This time I let it stretch and grow until it filled the chinks and crevices of the room. Here was the nut I’d been trying to crack, and I was so close. Would he yield, or lash out? I teetered for an eternity, and when his voice sliced through the dark, I nearly whimpered with relief.

“About three years passed. I’d finished med school and was working as an intern. One day, Gary showed up on my doorstep.”

An electric zing went through me and I sprang up and began pacing the hardwood floor in my bare feet. Paul would berate me later for marring the polished surface with my footprints, but I didn’t care. I felt nearly as breathless and stunned as when Paul had punched me in the gut. He’d just done it again, without the fist.

I stopped and turned toward the bed.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted…a friend. He had money but, hey, perhaps The Beatles put it best when they sang Money Can’t Buy Me Love. He wanted to talk with someone who knew him. He came in and we opened a bottle of scotch.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“Because Gary and I were close. I wasn’t going to just roll over on him.”

I walked to the nightstand on my side of the bed and lifted the phone. Paul lurched across the bed and grabbed my arm in a rough grip. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the police, Paul.”

“No, you can’t do that!” His voice was a growl and I prayed he wouldn’t snap, prayed that I’d pulled the right string. I put the phone down and flipped on the bedside lamp. Paul winced and settled back into position on the bed. I looked steadily into his face while he looked steadily away, a veiled mix of shame and triumph washing over his features.

“I suggested to Gary that I could be depended upon to keep my mouth shut if I was properly compensated.”

“I see. So, you’re blackmailing Gary, he’s been supplementing your income, and that’s why I can’t call the cops.”

Again, I saw him tense, deciding how to play this. He went with levity.

“That’s it—neatly in a nutshell. So, now you know. Your old man’s a felon, but the flipside is, we’ve got cash flow.”

He’d turned the charm on hard and his dimples were showing. My throat hurt as I swallowed past a vast dryness.

“Paul,” I squeezed my eyes shut and saw a negative of the scene imprinted against my eyelids, Paul’s faced rendered in stark tones. “I can’t do this. I can’t be a part of this.”

“You see, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

I opened my eyes and the dimples were gone.

“Now you’ve spoiled it and you’ve no one to blame but yourself.” Paul rolled off the bed in one quick motion, backing me into a corner. Tight. “You’ll tell no one. Are we clear on that?”

“I want to see him.”

“See who?”

“Gary. I want to talk to him myself.”

“No way, baby. The golden goose is an invisible man. I don’t even see him anymore.”

~~~~

Paul had smashed me once against the wall to send home his point, switched off the light, and gone to bed without another word. I climbed the stairs to the attic and spent another night there, pondering Paul’s story. At 2:30, I eased off the creaky couch and turned on a flashlight. I crept to the storage room and pulled out a file box. Removing the hanging folders, I slid a fingernail along the bottom and pulled up the fitted piece of cardboard that served to conceal my cache of newspaper clippings.

The top article comprised five column inches under the headline, “Killer Flees With A Fortune In Gold.” It went pretty much like Paul had told it, but I had never bought into the official version. I believed Paul was the one who’d murdered Bill and made off with the haul. He must have killed Gary too, cleared out his things, and made the body disappear so that blame would attach. I knew my brother, and Gary would never kill anyone.

A familiar stab sent spears of pain from my breastbone scar out to my extremities, a twisting knife made of grief, and guilt. I missed Gary, and I ached for what might have been, all the good he’d planned and worked for, all the connections of his life that now lay dormant. He hadn’t been the one to snoop in Bill’s room; I felt sure that had been Paul. But Gary must have known about the treasure somehow. I pushed away the thought and returned my attention to the clippings.

A couple of follow-up squibs came next, but in the absence of police progress, the news stories petered out. At the bottom of the slim stack was a piece from fifteen years back. It had taken me nearly three months of research to uncover it on library microfiche. The headline read, “Two Die In Arson Fire, Teen Missing.” A Nebraska couple had died when their house burned to the ground. Investigators found evidence to suggest they’d been restrained. Their sixteen-year-old son was missing. The story suggested the police were working off a theory of burglary, homicide, and possible kidnapping. The missing boy’s name was Spencer Pauley. The town was Silverwood, Nebraska.

~~~~

I finally drifted into a restless sleep. The clean, white light of morning burned through the uncurtained window, bathing my face in warmth, and I awoke with a clear image in my mind. Though I had slept, my subconscious had not. Ever vigilant, it had connected a few more dots, filled in a few more blanks. Paul was on shift at the hospital, and I was alone, with a delicious sense of illumination. I hurried to the living room and stood in front of the three hanging landscapes. The one in the center portrayed a group of jagged-topped column-like stones, resembling a grove of petrified trees. The contrasting white print near the bottom of the frame identified the site as Silverwood, Colorado.

I’d found nothing in the house because Paul had deposited the illicit loot somewhere in Silverwood. I sat on the white couch and thumbed through the table-top book, a detailed description of the Silverwood monument and surrounding areas. I remembered Paul’s fiendish delight at the house in Silverwood Estates.

Assume Paul was responsible for the murder of his parents and the robbery of their valuables. Assume, also, that Paul murdered Bill, stole his stash, and killed Gary to provide a cover. Then, it’s fair to assume, in the face of Paul’s behavior, that his crimes fuel his pride and tickle his funny bone. A sting of ice touched my spine. Beneath the guise of a rational individual, I caught a glimpse of a madman.

I heard the chirp of tires in the driveway. The front door flew open and sunlight flooded in around the darkened silhouette of my husband. Time froze in that instant and I felt a desperate yearning to hold it there, at bay, preserving me in amber light, but it slipped from my grasp and he was on me.

“I had a nice chat with Dr. Chadwick today.” His voice was high, eerily sing-song, and I realized he was mimicking me. “I asked him how the prenatal visits were going and he told me I was mistaken. It was embarrassing, Adalet. Why don’t we get on the same page? Why don’t you just tell me you’re not pregnant? Why don’t you just tell me you’re a lying sack of—” The next word was ugly and landed, with force, against the arm I’d put up to shield my face. It was followed by a torrent of clipped and nasty curses, punctuated by jabs and kicks.

I curled in a ball, head tucked in, arms and legs shielding vital organs, determined to outlast him, but he pulled back much sooner than I expected and I looked up to see him standing over me, an icy contempt creeping into his eyes.

“You made me a fool, Adalet. I dislike being made a fool of.”

I needed him hot, anything of use always came when he was hot. I rallied, and spoke in a shaking, tearful voice. “Paul, baby, I’m sorry. You put so much pressure on me. I just wanted you to be happy.”

He stood over me, frozen, and I watched for any tiny thaw. His jaw unclenched and he dropped heavily onto the couch beside me. “I was happy, Adalet. For a lousy couple of weeks, I was really happy.”

A tremor shot through me—half relief, half dismay. The image he had of himself, of us, was so distorted that he’d swallowed my abysmal act without hesitation. I found the very ease of it unsettling, but pressed on.

“I wanted it to be true,” I told him. “We can still make it true, Paul. But you need to stop pushing me so hard. Tension doesn’t help.”

I swallowed the rise in my throat and reached a hand to caress his face, smooth his hair.

“We could take a cruise. A romantic, relaxing cruise, and just let things happen. Not because we’re lazy or stupid, but because some things just can’t be forced.”

“A cruise.” His eyes turned thoughtful and he took my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I think Uncle Gary might support that.”

~~~~

Sunday. Hiking day.

On one of our first dates, Paul had taken me hiking in the Silverwood Forest. He’d led me on a fairly rugged trek and laid me down on a mat of pine needles at the base of a freestanding rock which rose over us like an obelisk. This rock was on the cover of the coffee table book. I’d missed the significance before, but now instinct told me this was the place.

I’d done a dry run on Friday, during Paul’s shift at the hospital. I made sure I remembered how to reach the place. I’d only been there once before and it’s a bit off the beaten path, but after a few false starts, I’d figured it out. I’d also packed a bag of useful items into the trunk of my car, found a concealed spot to park near the trailhead, and scouted out a good hiding place overlooking the relevant site.

Sunday morning, I was up before Paul. I gave him a hasty kiss through a bite of toast, and murmured something about a sale and his upcoming birthday before rushing out the door. I knew Paul would hike Silverwood today. He had to consult “Uncle Gary” and retrieve some article, the liquidation of which would finance our cruise. I figured he had to navigate a pretty complicated path to convert the items to untraceable cash. Or maybe he melted the gold into bars and sold it under the table. Whatever the process, it would take time and I’d indicated a desire to get underway. He would go today.

Paul was the faster and more experienced hiker and I was too clumsy to follow without getting caught. My best strategy was to get there first and be ready for him. I knew he still had to cook and eat a hearty breakfast, dress and pack his gear, and gas up the car. Also, I’d played a little trick with his car keys, knocking them off the hook so that they fell behind the heavy dresser. I figured I had at least an hour of lead time.

I was in place, with eight minutes to catch my breath, when Paul walked into the clearing.

~~~~

It was disconcerting how silently he arrived. The day was overcast, with a mist that hadn’t quite burned off and the cloud cover seemed to cast a feathery shroud over the forest, muting and distorting sight and sound. Rough tree bark bit into my hands as I leaned forward, peering cautiously through a screen of fern and pine boughs. He shrugged out of his pack and let it fall to the needle-strewn soil. He turned a slow circle, as if checking for bear, skunk, and highway robbers. Finding none, he lowered himself onto a stump and began whittling at some sticks he had gathered on the trail.

I watched, mystified, and finally realized Paul was setting up a rudimentary alarm system to alert him to anyone approaching. After arranging things to his satisfaction, Paul reached into his pack and removed a folding shovel. He cast a look in my direction and a thud, like a cold hammer, tapped against my breastbone. Then he walked left, off the trail about a dozen yards, and stopped at a rock about the size of a large, sleeping cat.

He cleared away the leaves and needles around the base of the stone and began digging. After completing a shallow trench around the stone, he used his knife to scrape away the fine grit before levering the shovel and shifting the stone off its base. Underneath was a concrete slab, and sunk into the concrete, was a safe.

Paul stood and stretched, taking another look around. I shrank behind my leafy cover, controlling my breath in a steady in and out. Then he spun in the combination and opened the safe. I watched him remove a small wooden cask and poke through the contents, a throb of anguish squeezing through me. What I saw removed the last crumb of reasonable doubt. Paul murdered my brother, and shamed my family by casting the blame for Bill’s death and the stolen goods on Gary.

The memory of that night is tight-shuttered. I released the catch and let it flow, bitter and corrosive, washing over me in nauseating waves. I remembered the lights and noise of the casino, the clank of coins, the beeps and whistles, the shouts and groans of the players. I was a regular there, and I’d won a great deal of money. Enough to sucker me into losing even more. A lot more.

Rona was a blackjack dealer there. That’s how we met. I remembered how her smile, from the center of her green baize table, turned to horrified comprehension as they led me away to the soundproofed room. The carpet was swathed in plastic sheeting, and I remembered the creatures who inhabited that room and how I’d felt brittle as glass when I realized my debt was coming due and I had no way to pay.

I remembered my tears, my pleas for mercy, and the phone call. The relief that flooded over me when I heard Gary’s voice. Gary, my big brother, swearing to help me, saying he could get the money, promising to come for me. I remembered the agony of waiting, learning all the meanings of pain and fear. The popping of my fingers, one by one, and the slow, sharp burn of the knife, collarbone to breast. I remembered the despair of abandonment.

I knew, then, that Gary was dead.

I wished they’d killed me, too. Instead, they ran me out of town and I was happy to go. I spent three days in the hospital. Rona brought the newspaper, her eyes rimmed red, nails chewed to the quick. I read the press accounts and formed my own theory. Gary was going to ransom me with the gold. He’d been coming for me, but Paul got in the way.

I filled out the paperwork and changed my name to Adalet. The Turkish word for justice.

Rona and I moved to Seattle where she got a job as a flight attendant and I went to work for Microsoft where I could learn all sorts of computer tricks and meet people in a position to help me. I opened a file, labeled it “Paul,” and started digging. When I knew enough, I followed him to Colorado and stalked him until we “met” and fell in love.

As Gary’s friend, Paul knew all about his little sister. But we’d never seen or spoken to one another. As Gary’s sister, I knew a lot about Paul—enough to recognize how to bring him down.

A finger of breeze ruffled the carpet of needles, pungent pine, like smelling salts. Paul was still kneeling over the safe. I reached for the Glock I’d brought along, felt its hardness and heft. My research suggested that a shot to the stomach would produce a slow, painful death, allowing time to chat and wrap up any loose ends while Paul watched everything he loved dissolve away.

I stepped out, holding the gun in front of me. Paul froze, like a deer assessing danger. I stopped across the concrete from him and motioned for him to drop the loot and raise his hands.

“Adalet.” His face was pinched, not with surprise, but with chagrin. “Did you find out before or after the wedding?”

“You’re wondering if I married you for the money?”

My hand was steady, my words, clipped and icy. I looked into his eyes. “Yes. That, and so much more. You killed my brother.”

Paul’s eyes flared, showing the whites, and he licked his lips. “This stuff is not easy to unload, Adalet. I’ve got a network set up, but without me, this is a stick of dynamite.”

He wasn’t connecting the dots to my satisfaction. I raised the Glock’s barrel, pointing at his head. “You murdered Gary.”

“No, I never—” Comprehension flickered into his eyes. “Grace?”

I pointed the gun a little lower now, focusing just below his belt buckle. He uttered a series of low, moaning wails.

“You’re my wife! We’re in this together, now. Your choices affect my life. Our future is…”

“Shut up!”

I jabbed the gun at him and another memory flooded my head. I was five years old, new on the playground and assaulted by a second-grader for my lunchbox. I ran to find Gary and dragged him to the far corner where the bully was stuffing the last of my Twinkie into his mouth. I watched him, equally fascinated and disgusted, while sandwich bags and cellophane crackled under his fat feet. I’d grabbed a stick and approached him, jabbing and shouting. The boy started to cry. A little glob of cream filling clung to his upper lip and trembled there, threatened by hot breath and tears. Gary dropped a gentle arm around my shoulder and led me away. Those kind make their own unhappiness, he told me, taking the stick I’d brandished and tossing it in the bushes.

The memory settled so solidly upon me that I sensed Gary’s arm across my shoulders, and I felt oddly suspended. I had planned, and worked, and suffered for this moment, and now I was dismayed at the tendril of doubt that began to curl at the edge of my resolve. I hesitated, struggling with a strong urge to surrender the stick. In the instant I let go, the mad man emerged.

Quick as a snake bite, Paul flicked his hunting knife at me, knocking the gun from my hand and slicing my palm. I backed away, but my feet got caught in the elaborate network of whittled sticks he’d erected, setting them a-clatter. Paul leaped across the safe and fell upon me.

I went down hard and he buried his hands in my hair, pounding my head repeatedly into the dirt. His knee came up and pressed into my neck, blocking my airway. My legs were free and I did my best to kick out or turn myself over, but the slippery needles made it a futile effort. Finally, I gained some purchase and leveraged myself into a roll. I was aided by the downhill angle and Paul and I slid and bumped and crashed to a stop about twenty yards from our starting point. Our new spot was a sort of ledge and beyond it, a sheer drop.

Paul must have taken a blow to the head because he seemed dazed and slow, and a large amount of blood covered his face, spreading over his checkered shirt. I pushed myself up, discovering that I couldn’t move very quickly either. I’d hurt my left ankle. I began limping away from Paul, but he roused himself and charged me, knocking the wind out of me and proceeding to crush any future attempts at breathing. He pressed both hands against my neck in an obscene parody of life-saving compressions and I felt my consciousness leaving me.

We were close to the edge now. Dislodged detritus clattered into the void at my shoulder, and a bolt of terror ran through me. I groped over my head, hoping for a loose rock or a handy rattlesnake. What I found was a petrified piece of Silverwood.

I brought it down on Paul’s head, striking for all I was worth as the darkness closed in, pushing me into a long tunnel. I’d staked every last shred of myself on winning this thing.

Against the odds, I won.

~~~~

I spent long minutes learning to breathe again and by that time, Paul had forgotten how. He lay still beside me, one limp arm stretched out across my belly. I scooted cautiously away, letting the arm plop to the earth. My teeth chattered and a frigid coldness seeped beneath my skin, drawing me down, wrapping me in lethargy. I roused myself, and shoved Paul’s body over the drop, wincing at the sounds it made as it bounced to the bottom of the canyon. Pulling in a deep breath, I worked my way up the slope, the slithering pine needles closing over my tracks like waves on the beach. I did a careful sweep, leaving Paul’s pack untouched and doing my best to eradicate all clues of my own presence. I transferred the contents of the safe to my backpack, slammed down the thick metal door, and heaved the rock back into place, scattering leaves and needles over all.

It was not a good day for hiking, and I met no one on my return trip. I went home, took a hot shower, and nursed my wounds. At dawn, I called the police and reported Paul missing.

Tuesday afternoon, my doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole, I saw a male and a female cop standing on the porch, rounded at the edges by the fish-eye view. I invited them in. We sat on the white furniture while they informed me, in somber tones, that my husband’s body had been found. I saw the look that passed between them as they noted my bruises and the marks on my neck. I knew they’d seen me limp to the sofa and collapse onto it. I knew they saw the mix of relief and regret on my face. Cops are trained to see so much, but they are still people.

There was an investigation, neighbors were canvassed, but in the end, Paul’s death was ruled an accident and I attended his funeral the following Friday. Mourners were few. Paul had likely killed everyone who ever cared for him.

~~~~

Sunday again. I dug the phone out of the rice bin and dumped the rice in the trash.

“Hello, Rona. I’m wearing widow’s weeds.”

“No…tell me you didn’t, honey.”

I thought about what to say. “Rest easy. I’ll tell you about it someday.”

There was a silence, filled with all the things we wanted to say that had no words. Finally she spoke. “You all right, sweetie?” Her voice was so tender I had to swallow three times and pat myself on the chest before I could answer.

“Grace. I’m Grace again.”

“Good to have you back, Grace.”

“Can I come see you?”

“Always. When are you coming?”

“Soon. There’s something I have to do first.”

~~~~

I drove to the coast and checked into the Hyatt. In bed, unable to sleep, I drifted from thought to thought. Long ago, people died when a ship sank, spilling its treasure. Bill had taken that spoil, and he and Gary were murdered because of it. Paul took it next, and made his own unhappiness, dying in the end because of the gold. And now I have it.

I rented a boat. In the milky light of early morning, I loaded it with burlap sacks and heavy stones, firing the motor and heading out to sea. I felt Gary beside me as I steered into the darkness, the rising sun warm on my back. Lifting my head, I breathed in the salt-sprayed air, and smiled.

I intended to live.