Sullivan and the Lies He Heard by Popcorn_and_Stories,Popcorn_and_Stories

Note:

This story contains a self-harm scene.

Sugar Island isn’t an actual place in the Hudson area. It was made up for plot purposes.

There’s a zero-tolerance policy on slurs, bigotry, and political rants in the comments.

This story is not aimed at readers who prefer short-form works.

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(October, 2004 — May, 2005)

SECTION I: LOWERING SKIES

“I’ve been crazy, couldn’t you tell? I threw stones at the stars but the whole sky fell.” Gregory Alan Isakov, The Stable Song.

Sugar Island was at its best during off season.

Off season was October to May, when tourists weren’t swarming in from the ferries docking at the historic steamboat launch twice per day.

Sugar Island, a patch of land with the Hudson on both sides, was accessible only by boat. It was home to 200 permanent residents but this population tripled in summer with the tourists swarming in from NYC.

Tourists who, in Sullivan’s opinion, talked too loud, demanded service be rendered too fast, and whined too much when it wasn’t.

Sullivan Rafferty, one of the permanent residents of Sugar Island, walked down the pier towards the historic launch.

It was now October and the tourists had finally left, so all was quiet. Except for the wind. It was brisk tonight. The sky was the color of a bruise, but there was a bright spot–this month’s full moon. The Hunter’s Moon, shining on him alone.

He was the only soul out here.

Sullivan stopped at the end of the pier, looking out to where darkened water met wounded sky. There, barely visible across this side of the river, was Green Island. Getting there only took a couple of minutes with a bowrider, but it was at least 30 minutes by rowing. It wasn’t actually an island anymore, so from there, one could get their wheels on the road–the connection to the rest of New York and the world.

Sullivan gazed into that connection. Wondering, as he often wondered these days, what to do about his wife.

Things had changed between him and Doe. Their intimacy was dead. There were no little touches anymore. They no longer kissed just because. The jokes had dried up. Sometimes, he found himself longing for her even while she sat beside him. Longing for those early days when they were flat broke and so much in love. 17 years ago.

Those had been rough times indeed. Rough, yet filled with laughter and the determination to make it against the odds. It had been just they two. Sullivan and Doe, united against the world.

They’d married fresh out of High School; a declaration of love for each other, and a rebellion against their legal guardians. Her foster parents never had warmed up to him. His foster parents had detested her.

This was the main reason they’d eloped. After graduation, they’d packed one bag each, sneaked out to their agreed meetup spot and run away together. They’d driven 2 days from Tucson to New York City, taking turns at the wheel. A week after reaching New York, they were married.

It hadn’t felt like any of the real weddings Sullivan had attended. He and Doe had been wearing jeans and t-shirts, their only witness was court-appointed, there was no cake or reception or honeymoon, and she’d kept her last name.

All that hadn’t mattered at the time. The important thing had been cementing their bond. And, of course, flipping the bird to their foster parents.

Having been in the system since he was 7, Sullivan Rafferty had lived under the authority of several pseudo-parents and the State of Arizona. His birth parents had been High School dropouts working minimum wage jobs and only staying together for the sake of their accidental child.

The much Sullivan could remember about his biological father, was that he’d been a peculiar man. Patrick Rafferty had been prone to strange moods and the occasional temper flare-up. He’d never been violent, just distant.

Not too long after Sullivan’s 6th birthday, his father ‘went out to get milk’. His birth mother had tried to care for him alone but found it too much. Fifteen months after his father’s abandonment, she’d taken him to a shelter. She hugged and kissed him with tears in her eyes, told him that she was sorry, that he deserved better, and that she would always love him. Then she’d walked away, never to be seen or heard from again.

Sullivan occasionally still wondered about her. Not enough to bother looking for her now, but she did cross his mind every once in a while.

His wife’s childhood had been no better than his. Doe had been dumped on someone’s doorstep when she was 5 months old. Her father and mother were unknown. To this day, nobody knew who’d dumped her on that doorstep.

As was true for most kids in the system, Sullivan and Doe had been cycled between foster homes and residential institutions. This went on throughout their childhoods, adolescence and teen years. Never settled. Never secure.

In addition to these, Doe had done a stint in juvie. She’d gone for a man with a dagger, turning his arms and legs and abdomen into Swiss cheese. She’d stabbed him a total of twenty-three times.

On mercy’s side, the judge considered that she’d been a mere 14-year-old, that the wounds had proved non-fatal, and that she’d been provoked. But considering the ferocity of her attack and that she didn’t have the excuse of insanity, she couldn’t be let off with a slap on the wrist. She was deemed criminally responsible and sentenced to serve two years at a juvenile detention center.

She was released at 16, enroled at a new High School, placed in the care of experienced foster parents, and kept under the close surveillance of a parole officer.

It was at that school, that Sullivan first crossed paths with her. In a word, it was magic. She was the first human being he formed a genuine connection with. The first he opened his heart and mind to. They had confided in each other and cried in front of each other, because they both understood what it felt like to be born a reject.

Both pairs of foster parents had disapproved of their friendship, lecturing them about how they ‘couldn’t help but be a negative influence on each other’ and would only ‘egg each other on.’

“Why can’t you make level-headed friends who’ll calm you down and teach you better habits?” Sullivan’s then-foster mother had demanded. “There’s Carl who lives next door. He’s a straight-A student. He’ll help you with your grades if you’re nice to him. And there’s Jordan Jones whose mother is on the PTA. Jordan’s a nice girl. So sweet and quiet, and she likes you. She’d be thrilled if you asked her out on a date. Instead you spend all your time with that bad girl who has a prison history. Why, Sullivan? Why can’t you just stay away from that girl?”

Why? Because he fucking loved her, that was why. As soon as they graduated, they’d flipped their straight-laced foster parents the bird by running off together.

They’d struggled financially for several years. They’d even come close to splitting up a few times, but had ultimately found their footing. The empty pockets and growling stomachs hadn’t won. Talking about their dreams had gotten them through it. Holding close, they would whisper late into the night about getting married all over again, this time at a church altar. She would wear a floofy white dress with ruffles and a tiara. He would wear a tailored suit. They would have good friends watching, happy for them. And they would have beautiful children of their own, raising them in a home filled with warmth and laughter. None of them would ever feel unsafe or unwanted again.

But now? Those whispered dreams still hadn’t come true.

They were both 35 now. They had good friends, were earning good money and had been settled here on Sugar Island for the past decade. Their savings account was healthy. They had enough disposable income to spend as they pleased–without getting too crazy, of course.

But the formal remarriage hadn’t happened yet. There were no children to give the love and security that they themselves hadn’t had.

It wasn’t because Sullivan hadn’t tried to make these things happen. He had tried many times. But each time he asked her to stop taking the pill, she gave him some reason why they should wait a little longer to have children. Every time he ‘proposed’ by broaching the subject of their remarriage, she had no shortage of reasons to delay it.

Sullivan stood on the deserted pier, his gaze fixed on that barely-visible connection in the horizon. His head had a dejected tilt. After all, was there anything as pathetic as a man whose own wife said no when he proposed to her?

She hadn’t even changed her last name yet. They’d been married 17 years but she was still Diana Cleary, the name assigned her by the State of Arizona.

Her legal forename was Diana. Doe was the nickname he’d given her when they were seniors in High School. She’d finally broken down and revealed what had earned her those two years in juvie, upset as she told him the gory details because she feared it would change his feelings.

It hadn’t. Sullivan’s honest reply had been: “To me, you’re as harmless as a little doe.”

He’d playfully called her ‘doe’ a few times after that. She’d loved it so it stuck. Sullivan also loved the nickname because of what it meant to them. He liked her legal name, too. Diana. It was only the Cleary part that bothered him.

She should have been Diana Rafferty long before now. Not that he was a sexist pig for wanting her to take his last name. In several ways, he enjoyed bucking traditional norms. He did the cooking and cleaning for one thing. And he’d never begrudged her having a stereotypically masculine job. All he asked was that she become Mrs. Rafferty. Was that so wrong? Was that small nod to tradition too much to ask of her?

Sullivan sighed.

His doing the cleaning had somehow just happened, but the cooking was intentional. He’d handled that from the start because she was terrible at it.

Doe’s cooking was a crime against humanity. She’d since given up on going near stoves, but early in their marriage, she’d tried a few times. “I want to cook for you,” she’d insisted.

But the results were never edible; hence, a waste of the precious little food they could afford to buy. Until he tasted her cooking, he hadn’t known that mashed potatoes could be crunchy and soggy at the same time, or that chicken thigh could taste like a lump of depression-era dough.

Once, after her disastrous attempt at kidney-bean stew, he’d said: “Look on the bright side. It must be a talent to be this bad at something. You suck so much, it’s an achievement.”

In response, she’d taken off her flip-flop and thrown it across the kitchen at him.

He’d ducked reflexively. The flip-flop had sailed over his head and hit the wall behind him. “That’s the best you can do?” was his taunt as he’d straightened. “What happened to my juvie girl? You hit like an anemic grandma now. You’re soft.”

Doe had whipped off her other flip-flop. Her arm like lightning, she aimed and fired. It hit him square in the neck. He’d doubled over coughing, wheezing and rubbing his throat. When he’d recovered enough to look up, she’d been the one smirking.

Sullivan had looked her up and down. “You think that was funny? You won’t be laughing when I’m done with you.”

Doe had frozen, then grinned, then bolted.

As quickly, Sullivan had pursued her.

The both of them laughing like lunatics, he chased her around their apartment. When he finally cornered her in the living room, he’d offered her an olive branch. “Surrender now and I’ll think about maybe going easy on you.”

“Never!” she crowed, shaking her fist at the ceiling.

“Kneel at my feet, powerless mortal! Kneel before me and plead for mercy!”

“Never, I tell you!”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

He’d rushed at her in a full-body tackle. Together, they’d crashed to the floor where they’d ripped each other’s clothes off and fucked themselves stupid.

He was right about one thing–when they were done, she wasn’t laughing. She was wrecked and satisfied. As was he. They’d still been 18 at the time. Two dumbasses riding on love and $25.

Life had changed since then. That carefree intimacy was gone, and damned if he had any idea how to get it back.

How could he fix things with her? How could he get their marriage back to how it once was? And then, how could he progress things to a formal wedding and children before they became too old to be active parents?

Sullivan gazed into the horizon for the answers it couldn’t give him.

As he kept gazing, a silhouette appeared under the moon. It seemed to be coming closer to the pier.

He squinted. What was it?

Ah, it was a guy in a rowboat.

The rowing man was heading upriver, here to Sugar Island. As the rower got close enough for Sullivan to make out facial features, he knew it was someone he’d never seen before. A little strange because he knew many of the island’s permanent residents by face. And since this was October and the man was rowing alone so late in the day, he was unlikely to be a tourist.

The rower looked up. He locked eyes with Sullivan. There was a malevolent sneer on his face. Hatred emanated from his gaze. The sheer malice in the expression startled Sullivan enough that he stepped back from the launch.

The evil-eyed stranger kept rowing at a steady pace. He never sped up or slowed down. He simply rowed, rowed, rowed… Soon he would reach the launch.

Sullivan recovered his composure after taking that instinctive backwards step. He stepped forward again. He’d wait right here for the snarling bastard to reach him, and he’d find out what the fuck his problem was.

After a moment, though, he decided against this course of action. He should just walk away. A confrontation could easily get out of hand. It wasn’t worth it. He’d been in enough fistfights as a teen to know that. He’d received several blows, given a hell of a lot more, and now he wanted nothing to do with avoidable conflict.

Besides, it was time he headed home. He’d left on this walk straight after dinner, and Doe would soon start wondering what was keeping him. His walks never took too long, so she’d get concerned if he wasn’t back soon. While it was true they weren’t as close as before, his wife showed the same concern for his wellbeing as ever.

With a last look at the snarling asshole in his rowboat, Sullivan retraced his steps back up the pier. Getting off it and past the dock, a willow copse lay ahead.

As he reached the fringes of this copse, he took a last look over his shoulder. Yep, the asshole was still rowing at that steady pace. He hadn’t yet reached the pier, and he was still glaring at Sullivan with the eyes of a killer.

“Fucking asshole,” Sullivan muttered under his breath.

He turned away again, heading homeward without another backward glance.

***

At the other side of the willow copse was a scenic street. This scenic street led to a wide road. From it, Sullivan walked into a web of residential lanes.

Ten minutes after leaving the pier, home was in sight.

He and Doe were lucky to have found this house when they did. The previous owner had inherited it from deceased parents but had no intention of living in it and was looking to sell fast. It was a mid-century flat roof cabin. Built against a hill rather than on top of it, the second floor was level with the driveway. Meaning that one needed to walk down a flight of outdoor stairs to reach the front door.

Sullivan enjoyed this unusual feature. Other features were that the upper deck had a view to the river and that the inside had all the rustic charms of a cabin. Exposed flooring, unpainted beams, the works.

He went down the steps and opened the front door. It was unlocked, but remembering the evil glint in the eyes of that asshole at the river, he locked it. Bolted it too.

A light was burning in the living room, but his wife wasn’t there. She must be out in her woodshop.

That was what she did for a living. Doe was an artisan woodworker. She built furniture and decorative household objects. Things with fine craftsmanship meant to last lifetimes.

She’d built all this butternut-wood furniture they had here in the house. There was no other way they could have afforded such furniture back then. And it was all solid wood. Doe was one of those woodworkers whose eyes only lit up for pure hardwood and who sneered at plywood. She only ever used plywood as a ‘necessary evil.’

Going through the kitchen, Sullivan stepped out to the back porch.

There was a light coming from her woodshop across the yard. She was working on her current project; a rosewood chest for a customer who’d commissioned it. Whenever she decided to stop working for the night, she’d come in and go to bed. Alone.

It was years since they’d slept in a bed together. Owing to his chronic insomnia, they’d agreed it was better to sleep separately so he wouldn’t keep her awake too. It was great for her circadian rhythm, but it took its toll on the physical side of their marriage.

Sullivan watched her woodshop awhile. Aching inside. Longing for her.

Then, making a snap decision, he started across the yard.

Enough was enough. He was going to talk to her right now.

They were going to iron everything out. He would confront her head-on about remarriage and children. He would listen to all her concerns and air his own. They would fucking communicate like the couple they were. Then he’d toss her pills away, take her to bed and get started on impregnating her.

Tonight.

He crossed the yard to her woodshop. The door was ajar. Odors of lumber, metal, glue and varnish issued from the narrow space.

He was about to open the door wider and enter, when her own voice stopped him. She was speaking to someone. She must be on the phone.

“I wish I could,” she was saying. “But I can’t slip away again so soon. Sullivan isn’t stupid. He’ll notice if I keep going to see a secret person whose identity I can’t reveal.”

What?

Sullivan froze outside the door, his hand resting on the handle.

There was silence as Doe listened to whoever she was talking to, then she burst out laughing. It was an unrestrained, authentic laugh. The kind of laughter she hadn’t shared with him in a long time.

“Even I can’t believe you just said that, and I’ve heard some shit in my time. You’re rotten to the core.” She said this, there was another silence, then she laughed again. “It’s good shit, don’t get me wrong. You know I get off on how you corrupt me. Picture the dropped jaws if anyone else heard these things you say to me.”

Again, what?

Sullivan frowned. Quiet as a mouse, without alerting her to his presence, he looked in through the crack in the door.

Yes, there she was on her cell phone.

Barefoot, his wife was a 6-footer. In the steel-toed boots she currently wore, she was well above that. Which put them at nearly eye level, him being 6’4″. She was in a flannel shirt, jeans, and overalls. Her hair, pin-straight and black as ink, was in a long ponytail. Its usual style when she was working. Her lean body combined athletic hardness with feminine softness. Her skin was pale with an undertone of burnt rose.

A woman of ethnically-ambiguous appearance. As her parentage was a mystery, they couldn’t pinpoint her racial admixture unless she underwent a genetics test. She didn’t want to, and he didn’t care whichever way.

Doe switched the phone to her other ear. “The Tuesday after this one?” She listened. “Yeah, that might work. I’ll come over to your place sometime in the afternoon.” Another short pause. “Sullivan won’t know I’m with you. He won’t know I left the house. He’ll be out working all that day.” She listened for a longer time, then laughed yet again. “He’ll get the shock of his life once we reveal it. Just wait till we see the look on his face. I want you to be there when we lay it on him.”

Cold crept into Sullivan’s muscles. His gut knotted.

But…no. He was jumping to conclusions. Doe would never cheat on him. That wasn’t her style. He knew her inside-out, upside-down and backwards. If she didn’t want him anymore, she’d say so to his face. No fear, no bullshit, no sneaking around.

She was obviously planning a meeting with someone and didn’t want him knowing about it, but there must be an innocent reason. She must be planning this surprise for him, not against him. Hell, maybe…maybe she was even planning their formal wedding. Maybe this person she was speaking with, was a wedding planner. That could be it. She could be planning their wedding as a pleasant surprise to see the look on his face.

But this optimistic idea was dismissed by her next words.

“Okay. It’s a date. I’ll be at your place on Tuesday for my further corruption.”

His gut knotted tighter. For her further corruption? That wasn’t something one would say to a wedding planner. It was something one would only say to a lover.

But still. Not her. Not his Doe. She wouldn’t… She’d never…

She laughed into the phone again. “I’ve got to get back to work. Take care of that elbow; it got a nasty bump while we were in your bed that afternoon.”

Well, okay then. There was no second-guessing this one.

The cold seeped all the way into Sullivan. With it came an agitated whisper through his brain.

So this is it. This is why she’s been so distant. She has a lover. You should have known. Why didn’t you realize she too would reject you someday? Everyone else did. Your own mother did.

There was some truth to this, but he still couldn’t fully blame himself for not foreseeing a betrayal from Doe. He’d mulled over the possible reasons they were growing apart, but an affair hadn’t entered his suspicions.

Without having heard the words come from her own lips, he wouldn’t have believed it of her. The woman he’d loved since High School. Who’d stuck by him through poverty and hunger and the threat of homelessness.

“Good,” she said after another brief pause. “See you soon… Okay… You know I’m looking forward to it… I love you too.”

Sullivan’s heart cracked now. This wasn’t just sex. She was in love with the guy.

“Bye.” The smile lingering on her face, Doe hung up.

Slipping the phone in her pocket, she walked across the woodshop to her central workbench. It had a table saw at one side. Cut pieces of rosewood were arranged in several piles. Beside the piles was an orbital sander, a carving knife, chisel, mallet and impact driver. Still without noticing him, she picked up a piece of cut lumber and stabilized it on the bench. A dust mask was around her neck. She tugged it up to cover her nose, took the orbital sander, turned it on and continued her work.

Sullivan’s hand was still on the door handle. He gripped it, the brass digging into his fingers.

His wife had a lover.

She must have for a while. It sounded like their meetings had been going on for some time now. She had a ‘rotten to the core’ lover who was ‘corrupting’ her and who would be there when she revealed the truth to him, the chump husband. They planned to enjoy his pain as they rubbed their affair in his face.

If she, who’d been his life partner for so many years, could delight in hurting him, she indeed was corrupted now. There was nothing left of his Doe inside this creature he was looking at. Her lover had sucked all the integrity out of her. Her lover had–Fuck, who was her lover?

It’s that asshole who glared at you at the pier. That guy who looked like he wanted to murder you.

That wasn’t impossible. It would explain a stranger lurking around the launch at this time of year. It would explain the animosity directed at him.

This idea brought the first surge of anger.

That some bastard could steal his wife’s body and heart, yet still throw animosity his way and plan to have a front-row seat to his humiliation at the reveal. Why? What had he done to deserve not just her rejection, but her ridicule too? Their lives had never been smooth sailing, but they’d pledged it to each other. He’d given everything to her. And for what? For her to laugh while engineering his pain?

How dare she?

His hand tightened on the metal. How fucking dare she?

The anger took control. It moved him. Releasing the door handle, Sullivan took a step inside the woodshop.

It was only one step before his logical brain got in gear and ordered him to stop. Should he go for her with no thought of what his words or actions would be? Shouldn’t he think this through first? Shouldn’t he plan a little? Decide beforehand what his response should be? She didn’t know he knew. This was an advantage. He had the upper hand right now. He shouldn’t lose it.

Besides, you’re empty-handed and she’s surrounded by power tools she knows how to use. Don’t forget who she is. Remember how she stabbed a guy twenty-three times when she was only 14? That viciousness is still inside her, no matter how sweet you try to convince yourself she is. Look in her eyes and you’ll see her true nature. Don’t go for her now, with those blades beside her. She enjoys the thought of your emotional pain, so you can bet she’d enjoy tearing your flesh to shreds.

Sullivan considered this. Even now, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

He and Doe had never put hands on each other in anger. Sure, they were physical people. They had that trait in common. They’d used to horse around a lot. Chase each other. Tackle each other. Even now, they were more likely to lob items to each other instead of handing them over. They shoved each other out of the way instead of asking, “Hey, could you move?” That was just how they were, but it was never with the intention to harm. She wouldn’t go for him with a tool…right?

His abrupt start and stop gave away his presence, because Doe looked up from her work.

Their eyes met.

She turned off the orbital sander and tugged her dust mask down from her face. “Sullivan. Hey.”

Sullivan stepped in from behind the doorway. “Hey.” He used the most everyday tone he could manage. He wouldn’t let on that he knew. Not until he discovered more and decided how to handle her.

Her black brows drew together. She set the sander down. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, I’m good. Just wanted to let you know I’m back from my walk and ask when you’re coming in for bedtime.”

“I’ll come in when I come in.”

Sullivan nodded. He could give it to her that she wasn’t being difficult, just blunt. The truth was that she didn’t keep to a schedule while she was in here. She went with the flow, working until she lost the will. Or got tired. Or needed to wait for one step to complete before she could move on to the next.

“I’ve already built the side panels,” she continued. “I’ll do some carving and start on the frame after I’ve sanded. I’ll get the skeleton standing before I come in.”

“Sounds like you’ll be here awhile.”

“We’ll see.”

“Okay. I just thought you might head in earlier tonight.”

Doe leaned her hip on the edge of the workbench. A smile came now. Her lips curled up at the corners. “Any reason you thought that?”

Oh, so she was ‘in the mood’. Why? Because she was all fired up from her phone call with her lover? She couldn’t wait until their Tuesday rendezvous to get some?

Sullivan nearly snarled at her. He caught himself in the nick of time. “Because I will,” he replied. “I’m tired tonight. Think I might get a decent night’s sleep if I turn in extra early.”

She looked surprised at this. He couldn’t be sure if it was from his having turned down sex, or from hearing that he, the eternal insomniac, was anticipating sleeping well.

“Okay.” She gave him another perusal, searching his face. “Sure you’re good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His tone got a tad nasty here. He couldn’t help himself.

Her eyes cooled. “Why wouldn’t you indeed,” she replied. She tugged her dust mask back over her nose, picked up her orbital sander again, and turned it on. The tool whirred to life. She looked away from him, resuming her work.

A dismissal.

Sullivan didn’t mind it. Anything to avoid touching her tonight. He swung away. The noise of the sander fading behind him, he crossed back to the house.

To think he’d come out here to get to the core of their problem and repair the distance. He hadn’t realized there was a worse problem. One that threw a grenade into everything he thought he knew about her.

He stepped into the kitchen, shoved the door shut behind him and leaned back against it. His throat tightened. His eyes stung. He squeezed them closed, pressing shaking hands to his face and trying to keep his breaths measured.

She loved the guy. That was the real kick in the gut. It would be bad enough if she was only screwing around for kicks, but she loved the guy. What was he supposed to do about that?

An answer came.

Put the bitch down, that’s what. Go back to that woodshop, wrap both hands around her throat and don’t stop fucking squeezing until she’s cold.

Sullivan pressed his hands deeper to his moist eyes. No. Not that. Never that. He hadn’t killed anyone yet, and wouldn’t debut with her.

Gutless fucking punk-ass wuss.

Was he? Possibly. But he wouldn’t take her life, if for no other reason than for the connection they’d once shared. He couldn’t destroy who he’d once loved. Still loved. Would always love.

What he would do was observe. He would find out her lover’s identity and location, learn their intentions, protect himself against whatever they were planning, then he’d walk away. But not before beating her lover half-dead. With bare hands, he’d turn that son of a bitch into mangled pulp even she wouldn’t recognize.

Sullivan stood like that for several minutes, his hands pressed to his eyes.

On the Tuesday after next–the day she’d scheduled a meet-up with her lover–he’d skip work to watch her. Today was Sunday the 10th, so that Tuesday was the 19th. This was enough time for him to talk to his boss and shift his appointments around to free up that day. He would make a show of leaving for work as usual but he’d wait around inconspicuously, follow her when she left the house, see where she went, and get a good look at the man who was more important to her than all they’d been to each other.

Sullivan dropped his hands and opened his eyes.

There wasn’t much he could do to ease the constriction in his throat, but he blinked to clear the mistiness in his eyes. The measured breaths helped him get back some control.

His eyes went to the clock. 8:45pm.

He did his best to be in his bed by 9:30 every night, with the blackout blinds down and the white-noise machine on. Straightening from the door, he crossed to the table. As he did, he noticed a spider. The small arachnid, black with a red stripe, crawled out from under the table and scuttled underneath the sink cupboard.

Sullivan had never been fond of spiders. He tended to squash them on sight, but right now he simply didn’t give enough shits to deal with it. He just let it be there.

Opening the cupboard, he got down a canister. In it was a mixture of dried lavender and valerian. Every night, he drank a handful of it steeped in hot water with a teaspoon of honey. He couldn’t quantify how much it aided his sleep, but it wasn’t hurting and it tasted pretty good, so he’d keep guzzling it.

There was also a coffee canister, which he ignored by habit. He quit coffee long ago. A shame since he enjoyed the taste, but that was how it had to be. He got a milder morning caffeine shot from cold-brew black tea.

Working mechanically, he prepared the sleep-tea. He drank it leaning against the countertop, not really tasting its mild sweetness.

On a good night, he could get 5 hours of sleep in one shot, but his usual was about 4 hours broken in two pieces. On his worst nights, he didn’t get a wink.

With the state of mind he was now in, tonight was going to be a bad night.

Sullivan looked out the window at the light from her woodshop. His eyes stung again. His vision clouded.

He blinked, but the cloudiness was back within seconds. His throat got too tight for him to carry on swallowing, so he dumped the rest of the sleep-tea down the sink drain.

After he was done pummeling her lover into gelatinous pulp, he would ask Doe one simple question. How? How could she, of all people, choose to hurt him?

Turning his back on the light from the woodshop, he left the kitchen and headed upstairs. There, he did his nightly routine; taking a hot shower while listening to a recording of Fauré’s ‘Cantique de Jean Racine’ on repeat, followed by setting his bedroom temperature to 61 degrees. Then he turned off Fauré, turned on his white-noise machine, pulled down the blackout blinds and got in bed.

Of course, he didn’t sleep. He lay with eyes wide open, staring into the darkness as pain and anger abraded him.

At some point–he didn’t know precisely when because he never kept a clock in his bedroom–his door opened. It was nearly soundless and wouldn’t have woken him up if he’d been asleep. But being awake, he noticed.

He turned his head, just making out Doe’s tall figure in the doorway. She was looking in on him, as she did whenever she came in late from her woodshop. Funny how she could be in love with another man, yet continue the performance of caring about his wellbeing.

“I’m awake,” he quietly said.

She sighed. “Too bad.”

Sullivan waited a second. “Done for today?”

“Yeah. I’ll turn in.” She came in from the doorway. Stopping at his bed, she leaned over him. Her lips found his in a brief kiss. “Night.”

He let her kiss him. All part of not letting her suspect anything until he got all his ducks in a row. “Night.”

Doe straightened and left his bedroom. Sullivan listened to her steps as she crossed the hall and her bedroom door closed. He returned to staring into the induced blackness. Staring, staring, staring.

He got out of bed when he couldn’t stand it anymore.

Switching out his boxers for pajama bottoms, he headed downstairs. The kitchen clock told him it was 4:30am.

He went to the fridge, got out his carafe of cold-brew black tea, poured himself a mug and threw in ice cubes. With it, he went out to the back porch. The sky had no hint of morning light, but the cool air was welcome on his skin. He sipped the cold-brew with a pleasant shudder. Nothing like an iced drink while it was already chilly out.

Sullivan stayed out there, making the drink last as he awaited sunrise. A black spider with a red stripe, similar to the one he hadn’t killed in the kitchen yesterday evening, scuttled across the porch deck and between the boards. He still let it be.

At 6:30, with the sun rising, he went inside to start on breakfast. He got out a pack of store-bought croissants. Laying out turkey breast, cheese, avocados and vegetables, he was soon busy preparing fancy sandwiches.

Doe came down a little before 7:00. She was rumpled from what had obviously been a great night’s sleep. Her hair was mussed. A gingham robe was draped loosely around her naked body, its sleeves slipping down those pale rose shoulders, its neck revealing the round swell of cleavage.

Tempting, even now. Despite her betrayal, he’d find it all too easy to throw her down on the nearest surface, pull her robe aside and shove his cock inside her.

His hand tightened on the frying pan handle. He looked away, using the pretext of turning over the turkey strips in the pan. “Hey.”

“Hey. How many winks?”

“None.”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen two nights in a row. I’ll give you a massage when you get home tonight. And you’ll get some. That should help.” She got her coffee canister down.

Sullivan took the turkey strips out of the oil, laying them on paper towels. “Medicinal sex?”

She smiled. “Problem?”

He made himself return the smile. “No. But I wouldn’t have turned down sex for attraction’s sake either.”

This made her stop and look at him. There was silence for a beat. Then she looked away, opening the canister and scooping ground coffee into the machine. “Any off-site appointments this morning?”

“Yeah.” Sullivan sliced the croissants in halves. “But not until 10:30.”

“Where’s the site?”

“Saugerties.”

“Any others?”

“Kingston, then Cortlandt at 4 o’clock.”

She looked around at him. “Cortlandt.”

“It’s not ideal, I know.” He loaded the croissant halves into the toaster. “But that’s how the schedule shook out. I should still get home around 7:00.”

“I’ll get us takeout then.”

“Okay.”

His home-cooked dinners were their usual fare, but there were times, like today, when cooking wasn’t convenient because of his appointment hours. His timetable varied day to day.

He’d been a Fire Risk Assessor for over a decade now, employed by a company based in Albany. James’s Fire Assessment Group, serving both residential and commercial buildings across the Hudson Valley. His work commute involved crossing the river in their bowrider, getting in his car he kept at a parking garage on Green Island, and driving 8 miles to Albany. There, he clocked in at the office, reviewed whatever he needed to, then set out on his day’s off-site appointments.

The croissant halves popped out of the toaster. He spread each with hot honey and assembled the sandwiches. Doe poured herself coffee.

They didn’t talk much over breakfast; just a few mundane comments. He’d normally try to start a conversation, but he didn’t trust himself with that now. It was difficult enough saying the bare minimum without getting nasty.

When they were done eating, they did the see-you-later routine there in the kitchen. They always did it before he went upstairs to get ready for work because by the time he came down again, she’d already be out in her woodshop.

He came down by 8:15, in a sweater and jeans. He’d always pictured himself in the kind of job where he wore jeans to work, and he’d found that job. He hadn’t worn a tie more than thrice in his lifetime, and he liked it that way.

Doe was already out in her woodshop, so he left the house without an additional goodbye.

He walked to the launch, where he got in his bowrider. The pier was busy on this Monday morning, with several other residents heading out to the mainland. Familiar faces, all. Sullivan exchanged greetings with a few, nodded at a few more, then was cutting across the water to Green Island.

Five minutes later saw him getting in his car. In another 15, he eased into his usual parking spot at James’s Fire Assessment Group.

The receptionist looked up as he entered the building. “Morning, Sullivan.”

“Morning, Rory.” He was in no mood for chit-chat with anyone, so he didn’t pause as he passed her desk. He went down the corridor to the boss’s office. The boss was also the owner, with his nameplate on the door.

Sullivan gave a cursory rap and went in.

Oliver James was well north of middle age, his hair sporting permanent grooves from how much he’d tugged his fingers through it over the years. He looked up. “Sullivan. Good morning. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, but I need a minute.”

“Of course. Sit down.”

“No need. I’ll make it brisk. Something personal’s come up and I’m going to need my off-site appointments cleared on the 19th. You can have Fran rebook them for any other day, but I need that one.”

Oliver James eyed him. “If you really need that, then of course it can be arranged. But has something gone wrong? You know you can be open. You’ve worked here long enough that I’d like to think we’re friends.”

“I’m fine. I just need that day cleared for reasons.”

His boss nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell Fran. She’ll rebook and let you know the new dates and times.”

“Great. My last appointment today is in Cortlandt, so I’ll head straight home from there. If there’s anything you need to know, I’ll see you about it tomorrow morning.”

“That’s fine by me.” Oliver paused. “Good luck on the 19th, with whatever it is. I hope it turns out alright.”

“Thanks.”

Sullivan left his boss’s office. That was settled.

He went into his own office to assemble his file. It was made up of address lists, blueprints and assessment guides for the buildings he’d be inspecting today. The file under his arm, he left his office. He had just enough time to get to his first appointment in Saugerties at an unhurried pace.

The site was a rural home. Nice property, but the house was in shambles. As he walked up to the house, he eyed its exterior.

It had good bones but major work was needed. The brickwork was damaged and had lost enough weatherproofing that it was too far gone for simpler repairs. It had to be replaced or rendered. The roof’s integrity was holding up for the most part, but the flashing had separated from the chimney and the windows. There was so much rot around the windows that the wood would crumble at a touch.

But then, it wasn’t his concern. He and Doe had a blast being their own contractors when they bought their house, but this one wasn’t his problem to dirty his hands with. He was only here for the fire assessment. Stepping carefully, he went up the porch steps and pressed the doorbell.

The door was opened by the property owner. He was a nice guy. Customers tended to be, but today, the effort was wasted on Sullivan. He cut through the pleasantries and got straight down to business.

“I have the layout here as the building stands, but my notes say you’re extending the house as part of the renovation.”

The property owner nodded. “I’m also going to rip out the kitchen and redo it. I want to put a bathroom in a space that was used as a storage room by the last owner. I’m just not sure if that’ll work with the existing piping. That’s one of the things I want to be sure won’t be a fire hazard.”

“Discuss it with your contractors,” Sullivan replied curtly. “Especially if you’ll be rerouting any copper water pipes. You don’t want those coming in contact with drywall. Anything else you want to tell me before we start the walkthrough?”

There wasn’t. Or if there was, the guy was now too intimidated to speak up. They started the walkthrough, making a full tour of the house, followed by a circuit of the 3-acre plot. Sullivan made recommendations as they went, checked all the electrical points in the house, and made a full list of the renovations that would be made.

They were done shortly before noon. The day had brightened a lot by then. Before getting back in his car Sullivan said, “You’ll get my full report next week. It’ll be mailed to you from our office.”

“I’ll look out for it. Thanks for coming out.” The man extended his hand.

They shook, Sullivan hit the road, and headed to his next appointment in Kingston. After it, he grabbed a late lunch at a salad bar before setting out for his last appointment in Cortlandt.

At a few minutes to 7:00, he was home. His boots got unzipped at the front door before he continued into the living room. The sound of a TV sitcom and the smell of takeout greeted him. Doe was on the sofa.

She smiled when he walked in, but it was a curl of her mouth that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey. Okay day?”

“Yeah.” Sullivan peeled off his jacket, tossed his file on a chair, then made himself walk over to the sofa and kiss her.

“Takeout’s heated up,” she said. “I didn’t start without you.”

“Okay. I’ll get changed.”

He came back down in comfortable flannel. She’d gotten pasta primavera for them both, but there were a lot of different sides. He sat by her on the sofa, stretching his legs out. The sitcom, with its irritating laugh-track, was still on. How come? They both detested sitcoms.

He threw a sugarsnap pea in his mouth. “Why are we watching this?”

“There’s nothing much on right now, and the game replay doesn’t start until 8 o’clock. It’s this or the news.”

“I’ll go with the talking heads.”

For some reason, she hesitated at this. Then, with obvious reluctance, she switched it to a news channel. As she put down the remote, she placed her hand on his thigh.

He reminded himself not to tense up at her touch. After all, she’d promised him a massage and sex tonight, and he should go along with it. Which, if he was being honest, he didn’t find distasteful. It was weak of him, but he’d still enjoy her body. The idea of STDs occurred to him, but if he hadn’t caught anything from her all this time, he should be safe now.

She stroked his thigh for a minute, then set her plate aside. “Be right back.” She went to the kitchen.

He focused on the TV screen. The female newsreader was talking about the rescue efforts in Egypt after a bombing last Thursday. She stared intensely into the camera lens as she communicated this information.

Doe returned then. She held a bottle of Jerez Brandy; a 10-year-aged gran reserva. She also held two tumblers and a bowl of crushed ice. Sitting, she turned the news volume all the way down.

Sullivan eyed the bottle label. “Breaking out the good stuff.”

She smiled. “I thought I’d lube you up before the massage.”

She tossed him the bottle. He caught and opened it. She dumped handfuls of ice in the tumblers, and he filled them up the rest of the way with the brandy.

When their plates and tumblers were empty, they headed upstairs. He followed his nightly routine of a hot shower with the ‘Cantique’ and setting his bedroom temperature. Instead of going back out to her woodshop, Doe came to his bedroom holding a bottle of massage oil and wearing a skimpy nightshirt.

Already lying in bed, he watched her walk in. Inky black hair fell in a straight sheet to her waist. Her nightshirt stopped only a few inches lower, draping over her hard nipples and the inward groove at the apex of her thighs.

There was a tingle in his cock. A physiological reaction he couldn’t rationalize away. Cursing his traitorous body, he flipped over to lie on his front in a prone position.

Doe joined him on his bed and got astride him. Her thighs wrapped around his. Her ass settled on his calves.

He got harder still, his erection pressing into the mattress. He ignored it, focusing on the sounds of her opening the oil bottle and rubbing her palms together.

Her slick hands cupped his nape. The mellow scent of the sandalwood oil reached his nose. Her thumbs performed firm circular motions on the sides of his neck, sweeping up towards the base of his skull. She lingered there for a few minutes, then moved down to his shoulders. Her circular motions became kneading that loosened the knots in his trapezius muscles.

Sullivan breathed out. His eyes closed. His cock was raring to go, but the rest of his body grew lax. How could she have such cruel intentions for him, yet touch him like this?

She moved down, kneading his lower back, sending the tension melting out of his muscles. Her thighs shifted over his, skin sliding over skin.

Her hands left his body then. There was a soft rustle of fabric–she must be taking off her nightshirt. Her nudity was confirmed when bare tits flattened into his back. The softness of the globes contrasted with the bullet points of the nipples. The heat of her mound radiated into his lower back.

His erection pulsed.

Doe ran her hands over his thighs. Her lips were at his earlobe. “Turn over.”

So help him, he turned over.

He’d hate himself when post-nut clarity came, but for now, with blood flowing through his rock-hard erection, this was beyond what he wanted to resist.

Doe resettled astride him once he was lying on his back. Her dark eyes fixed on his blue ones, she ran her hands down his bare chest to the obvious tent in his shorts. She lifted the waistband above his erection and drew it down his hips. Her black hair fell over them, screening them like a curtain. Her creamy pale tits hovered above his face, their hardened nipples with a deep rose hue. Although 35, her body hadn’t changed since her early twenties.

Yeah, he’d hate himself later. But for now…

Sullivan took one breast in his hand, letting his palm graze the bulleted nipple.

Doe lowered further down to him, lying on his body.

His cock hardened against her stomach. He slid both arms around her waist, squeezed her well-curved ass. Her legs parted over his, making room for him to slide his hand to her mound. Wetness was already there. Her folds were hot and slick to his fingers.

She lowered her head to his, kissing him.

He returned it, their lips moving together as he put his fingers to her clit. She moaned a “yes” into his mouth as he traced over her clit again and again. She arched her hips in time with his fingers–helping him get her off. It got wetter between her legs, her fluid drenching his fingers.

She still got this wet for him. All her attraction to him couldn’t possibly have died. Did her asshole lover know that? Did the son of a bitch know she still moaned like this at her husband’s touch? Would he still love her if he knew?

A twinge of pained anger went through Sullivan. It wasn’t enough to make him lose his erection and stop, but it was enough to make him rougher as he dipped two fingers between her wet cunt lips and deep inside her. He bit along her throat at the same time, hunting by instinct. His teeth grazed her skin; down her shoulder.

She definitely knew where he was headed, because her arms wrapped around him as soon as his mouth locked onto her nipple. Doe crushed him closer, digging her fingers into his sides. He tongued the nipple, slipped another finger inside her. Going deeper still into her wet, clenching cunt. His other hand rested on her fine ass.

Moaning another “yes,” she arched against him, her hips rolling as he fingered her. Then she stilled as her release arrived, clenching around his fingers several times.

When it stopped, she lifted her torso up. An orgasmic flush had bloomed over her neck and tits. Her hands ran across his chest. Her eyes were smoky, holding his.

The expectancy in the look went straight to his cock. He cupped her ass cheeks. His hips shifted. The sensitive tip of his cock prodded her wet slit. He pushed upwards, moaning a little himself as the tip entered her to be surrounded by a buttery canal. Doe lowered to him, her hands on his shoulders and their hips drawing closer as his cock disappeared into her body. Her hips settled on his.

Fully surrounded, Sullivan moaned again. One hand left her ass, gathering her hair into a fist. He tugged her head to his. “Ride me until I come.”

A smile touched her mouth. The flush climbed higher up her neck. She raised her hips, drawing up until the tip of him, and lowered down to take all of him again. She repeated it, rolling her hips as she kept up the rhythm.

Her breaths got faster and the flush suffused her face, but her pace didn’t slacken. Her athletic body had never failed yet. Those long, lean muscles rippled as she stabilized her arms on his shoulders. Her strong calves were locked around his legs. Her tits swayed above his face. Her wet canal milked his cock.

Sullivan wrapped her hair tighter around his fist. His other hand went between her legs to her clit, just above where his cock plugged her. He flicked the nub; not altogether gently. She gave a sharp moan. Her walls clamped down around him. Her hips kept rolling, slick and speedy.

He flicked her clit again. She moaned again, louder this time. Her breaths also got louder. He thrust up against her, giving back as their joint movements became deeper and shorter. More like grinds.

He twitched inside her, swelling, his balls tightening. Their eyes locked. “Who are you riding?”

“You,” she panted.

“Then say my name.”

“Sullivan.” The word was equally a gasp, moan and a hiss. He flicked her clit again. “Sullivan! Sullivan!” She leaned forward, her flushed face dropping into the curve of his throat, her pussy contracting around him. Drenching him in fresh juices.

He grabbed her around the middle, pressing her tits into his chest and shoving up deep between her legs as he also climaxed in a rush of relaxing pleasure. He arched with the kickback, spurting hot liquid into her as satisfaction flooded his cock and lower back.

Temporary satisfaction. The rush was soon over. The buzz passed. There was a lingering laxity in his body, yeah. But his mind, which had cleared, became overcrowded again.

And the self-disgust set in. To have let his cock make the decision. To have enthusiastically fucked the woman whose betrayal still brought him close to tears when he dwelled on it…

You retard. Don’t lie here holding her. Dismember her. Carve her eyes out of her skull.

His arm stayed motionless around her waist. Doe was sprawled on top of him. They lay there, not quite cuddling. When his cock softened enough to slip out of her, she rolled over and flopped onto the bed beside him. He let her, pulling his arm off her body.

She stretched, looked across at him, and smirked. “Not bad for medicinal sex.”

Sullivan found he could smile back.

She sat up, swinging her legs down to the floor. She gathered up her nightshirt, his spent semen streaking her inner thighs as it found its way out of her.

The sight brought bitterness. He looked up to her face. “Going to get all that out of you and take your pill.”

Doe returned his look, then her gaze shifted. “Yeah.”

It’s her lover’s child she wants. That’s it. She hates you; why would she want to carry your child? The ink won’t have dried on your divorce decree before she’s pregnant for the asshole.

He looked away too, fighting the urge to tell her to get the fuck out of his space.

He didn’t need to say it, however. She tugged her nightshirt on, closed the blackout blinds for him, then turned on the white noise and started for the door. “I’ll watch the game replay after I clean up. Then I’ll work in the woodshop for an hour or so. I want to check on wood I bent this morning for a different project. Maybe make some kerfing strips.”

He didn’t bother answering.

“Night,” she said.

“Night.”

He got about three hours, but not in a single shot. It was in bursts of REM sleep interrupted by stretches of wakefulness. He finally went down to the kitchen a little before 5:00am, and another working day began.

***

Things continued the same throughout the week and weekend. Sullivan turned down two offers of sex without arousing her suspicions, but was weak enough to cave once. She walked into his bedroom on Friday night in that same damn nightshirt, and he caved.

Tuesday the 19th arrived.

He went through the normal motions that morning; breakfast together and their parting greetings. She went to her woodshop and he left the house.

Instead of going across to Green Island, he took the bowrider a half-mile downriver and walked back to the house. Through simple deductive reasoning, he was sure he wouldn’t need any other transportation except his two legs.

Whoever she was meeting today, must already be on the island or would be arriving solo on the ferry. In summer, the ferries docked here twice a day. Now, off-season, it was twice a week; Saturdays and Tuesdays. Today, the only arriving ferry would dock at 10:00am. and depart at 6:00pm. Doe had said on the phone that the meetup would be ‘sometime in the afternoon’, during his working hours. This meant she couldn’t possibly leave the island on the ferry without his noticing her absence. Nor did she have access to their bowrider for a quick mainland trip–it was the only boat they owned, and he used it for his commute.

She was necessarily meeting her lover here on the island.

Knowing her athletic bent, she would walk to the location. The island wasn’t that big, so she never took her car unless it was a grocery trip. He could follow her on foot no problem.

His wait wasn’t uncomfortable either. There was no crouching behind bushes or curling up in a vehicle like an idiot. He simply let himself back into the house and waited in the living room. Doe, out in her woodshop, was none the wiser. She even dropped into the kitchen for a midmorning snack but didn’t swing by into the living room, where he lay on the sofa reading a book.

Once it was noon, he moved to the garage because she’d have to pass through the living room as she went out.

He only waited there an hour. Shortly after 1:00pm., there was the sound of someone leaving the house through the front door. After giving her a minute’s head start, he stepped out and scanned the lane. There she was, turning a left corner.

Sullivan let her make the turn. Then he followed.

He kept a discreet distance, often letting her out of his sights but never losing track of her.

He tracked her through interconnected residential streets for roughly a mile. As this island was a local vacation spot, there were several B&Bs and a few privately-owned mansions alongside the modest family homes like theirs.

It was at one of these mansions that Doe stopped.

His brows rose. Her lover was wealthy. Was that the attraction? He’d never known her to be impressed by wealth. Had that part of her character changed without his realizing?

She strolled to the front door and pressed the doorbell. From where he stood, it was impossible to see who admitted her, but the door was soon answered. She went inside and the door shut.

She emerged 94 minutes later. This time, she wasn’t alone. Beside her was a young man. They walked down the driveway together, talking and laughing. Clearly, they were comfortable with each other.

Seeing this for himself, Sullivan’s initial reactions returned with full force. His heart cracked all over again. On its heels came that rage, compelling in its intensity. Urging him to go up to them and make her watch as her lover was beaten to near death.

He resisted the urge–for now. He needed to get practical things aligned first. Head before fists. He didn’t permit the anger to move his body. He stayed in his spot, getting a good look at the guy.

It wasn’t the same asshole from the pier. This one was blond, late-twenties and sporting a blissful post-coital smile. He was good-looking enough, Sullivan could allow. But he was so…neat and pressed and clean-cut. Not the kind of guy he’d have pictured Doe being attracted to, much less falling in love with. Soft boys had never held appeal for her.

The pair stopped at the end of the driveway. Soft Boy leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. Why not on the lips? Being discreet because they were outdoors?

After this kiss, Soft Boy continued down the street. Doe turned in the opposite direction.

At this point, Sullivan had to decide which of them to track. On one hand, he could follow Soft Boy and find out more about him. Perhaps get a vehicle registration number. On the other hand, he could see if Doe got up to anything else before going home.

He picked Doe.

This turned out to be the wrong decision, because she didn’t get up to anything else. She only returned home, where she went upstairs and took a shower before going back out to her woodshop.

It was nearly 4 o’clock then. He doubted she’d try anything else with his being due to return home in a couple of hours.

A shame he hadn’t tracked Soft Boy instead. Still, his day’s mission was accomplished. He knew where her lover lived and had seen him. Now he’d get over to Albany.

Sullivan walked to where he’d left the bowrider, went across to Green Island, then to an electric supply store in Albany where he purchased recording equipment. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to install it in her woodshop.

He returned home an hour later, stowing the recording equipment in his bedroom before going to find her.

She was in the woodshop, standing over the half-finished rosewood chest and drilling holes around the top of the frame with a forstner bit. She looked up as he opened the door. “Well, hey. You’re early.”

Sullivan didn’t proceed beyond the doorway.

It was impossible to look at her without those feelings. Compulsive anger. A crumbling heart. Seeing her with her lover made the hurt cut deeper than at first. It would be impossible to get an erection for her now.

“My last appointment got canceled,” he replied with all the control he had. “Decided to come home instead of sticking around at the main office.”

“As long as it doesn’t get rescheduled late in the day some other time, then great.” She paused, smiled. “Nice seeing your face.”

Sullivan only nodded at her. “I’ll go start on dinner.” He turned away. “Come inside in an hour.”

“Okay.” She returned to her drilling.

As he cooked, he wrestled with questions. Was any part of his old Doe still inside that woman? Did any part of her, however slight, still value their relationship? Did she feel any guilt? Enough to confess if he gave her the opportunity? Or would she lie to his face?

Of course she’ll lie to you. Everyone lies to you.

Well, he was going to put that to the test over dinner.

She came in at the agreed time. Her overalls were off. Her boots she took off at the back door. Sullivan already had the meal laid out. They were halfway through eating when he asked, “So, how was your day?”

“Like yesterday. Worked for most of it. The chest is coming along well.”

“Yeah. I took a look at it. It’s great work. But you should’ve taken a break for your muscles. Maybe done some stretches. Or taken a walk.” Sullivan held her gaze over his glass. “Did you?”

Her brows lifted, just a little. She didn’t answer quite as soon as she should. Then she shrugged. “You know I don’t take dedicated exercise breaks when the work’s going well, but I’m good on the activity front.”

There it was. The lie to his face. The denial of the walk she’d taken this afternoon. Any last hope that his old Doe was still inside her somewhere, died.

“Why the sudden interest in my muscles?” she asked.

Sullivan smiled; he hoped not too bitterly. “I’ve always been interested in your body, Doe. You know that.”

Doe looked at him some time. Then, chuckling and shaking her head, she returned to her meal.

She cleared up after dinner, and did the dishes. Her only chore. Afterwards, she offered him a massage. He politely shot it down, so she returned to the woodshop. He read for half an hour while drinking the sleep-tea, then went up for his bedtime routine.

***

His opportunity to install the recording device in her woodshop, wasn’t until four days later.

It would have been easy to install it on a weekday morning before she woke up, but she kept the woodshop locked overnight and there was only one key. The lumber and tools in there were worth a small fortune altogether, so she guarded them well.

He did have several opportunities to look through her texts and call history, but there was nothing incriminating. He already knew that she and Soft Boy communicated using their cellphones, so this just meant she was diligent at deleting everything.

It was Saturday evening that he got his chance to install the recorder. She was taking a shower after doing the dinner dishes, so he worked fast. Behind her tool rack was the most inconspicuous place, so he had to unload the tools and move the rack before starting the instalation.

He finished, put everything back the way it was, and was just stepping back out of the woodshop, when Doe herself came out to the back porch. Their eyes met across the span of the lawn. She frowned, a question in her eyes.

Shit.

Approaching the house, he began concocting a rational explanation for what he’d been doing in there.

Still frowning, she stepped off the porch to meet him halfway. “You could have asked if you wanted to borrow one of my tools.”

“I didn’t,” he replied. “I went in there looking for you.”

“You’ve found me. What is it?”

“I started out to take a walk down to the pier while you were in the shower. I was halfway there when I thought I should come back and ask you to join me.”

Doe gave him a long look. She didn’t answer.

“Well? You want to walk with me or not?”

“I do,” she replied evenly. “But the truth is I’m surprised you’re asking. You haven’t invited me on your walks for a long time.”

Sullivan stiffened as annoyance stirred. Was this kind of shit going to be her defense when he confronted her about her affair? Was she going to paint herself as the lonely victim? “Maybe that’s because you always run back out to the woodshop to keep working after dinner every night.”

There was answering annoyance in her eyes. “And maybe that’s because you seem to want less and less to do with me. Even sex now. I threw myself at you all last week and nothing.”

“Look, I don’t want to argue shit to death. I want your company so I’ve asked you to join me. Either do or don’t.”

She seemed to debate it for a minute, then she spoke curtly. “I’ll get my jacket and meet you out front.”

“Fine.” Sullivan walked past her and into the house.

She soon met him at the front door. Hands buried in her jacket pockets, they started out. Neither spoke until they were almost at the willow copse.

“This reminds me,” she said. “I’ll take the boat out next Saturday. I want to get to the lumberyard. You can come if you want.”

“What are you buying?”

“Oak for a new job, and anything unusual that happens to be there. I’ll see if there’s butternut as well. I’m thinking of a floating bookcase for the guest room. I’ll get it done sometime before December.”

Sullivan nodded. This simple statement had an important implication. Having no family, they always invited their closest friends to stay from Christmas Eve to the 27th. These friends were Liam, Beck, and Rocky.

Liam and Beck were husband-and-wife. Rocky had also been married; to Sophia. For five years, Sullivan, Doe, Liam, Beck, Rocky and Sophia had made up a friendship circle. Sophia’s fatal car accident in July 2002 put a gap in the circle, but the rest of them were still close. Their Christmas tradition hadn’t stopped.

Doe’s talk of improving the guest room before December, must mean that she and her lover weren’t planning their big reveal until after the holidays. This was good to know. He was building a picture. He’d know more once he got information from the recorder in her woodshop–and from the extra mic he would place in her bedroom later tonight. When she was asleep.

They reached the willow copse; walking side-by-side on the trail, but with several inches between. Dying autumn leaves crunched underneath their booted feet.

“Will you come or not?” she asked.

He frowned at her.

“To the lumberyard with me next Saturday,” she clarified.

“Oh, that. Sorry. Yeah, sure. I’ll come.”

Doe nodded, looking at the trail ahead. “Why did you really ask me on this walk, Sullivan?”

“I told you. I want your company. Is that hard to believe?”

“These days? Yeah.”

He didn’t answer.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you finally made a move.”

He glanced at her again. “And that’s why you invited me lumber shopping next Saturday.”

“One good turn deserves another.” The reply was wry. She smiled, but it seemed to come with effort.

She withdrew her hand from her pocket after a moment. Reaching across, she took his hand. His hand remained limp at first, but he eventually wrapped his fingers around hers.

They continued the stroll in silence. At the other side of the copse, they headed up to the pier. It was similar to his last solo stroll; bruised sky, dark water, brisk wind, nobody else. The only difference? There was no asshole rower this time.

Hand-in-hand, they stopped at the end of the pier. Sullivan glanced at her. Doe was clearly thoughtful, looking out at the water. The deep water.

Shove the putrid whore in and hold her head down. You’re out here alone. It’ll look like an accident. Who’d know? Nobody’s here to see. Shove her in. Do it.

Sullivan swallowed. He looked away from her face but didn’t release her hand. They stood like that for minutes. Then he spoke very, very softly.

“We should head back home now, Doe.”

Spineless worm. No wonder she’s stopped loving you. You’re weaker than her preppy boyfriend.

Doe nodded her agreement. Hands clasped, they turned down the pier. The rest of the stroll was silent.

“Need a massage tonight?” she asked, removing her jacket as they got in the house.

“No, I should be good.” He paused. “But if you’re not going straight back out to the woodshop, we could see if there’s anything worth watching.”

“Okay. Pick a movie. I’ll grab the good stuff.”

Sipping the gran reserva brandy and sharing the last slice of frozen cheesecake, they watched the movie. She sat close to him throughout. As close as they used to sit before they’d begun growing apart.

He went up to bed once the movie was over. It was an average night for him. He drifted off a few hours after he lay down, and woke a few hours later.

Normally, he’d lie there in the hope of a little more shut-eye, but not tonight. This was the moment to place the spare mic in her bedroom.

Sullivan noiselessly left his bed. He took the small mic out of his nightstand, left his bedroom and went to hers. She was a moderately heavy sleeper. He’d be in and out without her stirring.

But this wasn’t what happened.

Because the instant he opened her bedroom door, he saw fire.

Doe lay on her side, fast asleep, her head nestled in the pillow, a sheet tucked under her chin. And her bed was burning. All around her was a raging fire. The yellow flames circled her bedframe, licking greedily up her mattress and about to engulf her.

His wife was on fire.

Fear exploded in Sullivan; a fear born out of the love he’d had in his heart for her since High School. No! He was not fucking letting her burn! Not her!

The recording mic was forgotten. He had to save her before the fire touched her clothing.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t go grab his flame-resistant kevlar jacket or the fire extinguisher. He went straight for her. Once he got her safely out of the room, he’d come back and put the flames out.

Her first. It was an imperative. A code written into his DNA long ago.

His own exposed skin be damned, Sullivan rushed into the flames to save her.

She didn’t immediately wake up when he hit her mattress, but her eyes flew open as his arms closed around her and he wrenched her out of bed. “What–?! I… Sullivan, what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Put me down!”

He didn’t. Holding her in a bridal carry, he hauled her over the fiery ring, making sure no part of her body touched the flames. “I’ve got to get you out of here! I’ll come back and put it out once you’re safe!”

Her eyes only widened. She looked about as petrified as he felt. “Put what out?! What the fuck is your damage?”

“The fire, you little idiot! This fucking fire! Don’t you get it?!” He carried her towards the door.

In his arms, Doe stared wide-eyed into his face. She didn’t speak for a second. She wasn’t an easy crier, but her eyes suddenly welled with tears. “You…you really think there’s a fire here, don’t you? Oh God, you really are seeing a fire, aren’t you, Sullivan?”

“Well of course I’m seeing the fucking fire that’s right there!” He gestured towards the burning bed now behind them. His voice grated from residual panic, but his fear was lessening now he’d gotten her out of the danger.

At the doorway, he set her on her feet. Before rushing to grab his kevlar and the extinguisher, he ran his eyes over her to check for any burns on her skin. There were none, but tears were now streaming down her face.

“But there’s no fire.” Her voice broke. Her fingers dug into his chest, holding him to the spot. “Sullivan…my treasure. There’s nothing on fire.”

She hadn’t called him ‘treasure’ in at least a year. But that wasn’t the critical thing right now. “Of course there’s a fi–”

“No, there isn’t! There is not! Close your eyes! Hear any crackling? Smell any smoke? Feel any heat? That’s because there’s no fire! Maybe you’re seeing it, but it doesn’t exist!”

It was the screaming and tears that got Sullivan to consider what she was telling him. Doe wasn’t a screamer or crier.

“Shut your eyes,” she ordered again. “And tell me if you sense any other signs of a fire.”

There was so much urgency about her that he humored her. Putting fire-safety to one side, he shut his eyes. He took a deep breath; there was no smoke. He listened close; there were no crackles and pops. Despite that they were in the open doorway, there were no waves of heat.

But when he opened his eyes and looked into the room, he saw the bed surrounded by flames.

Sullivan looked back at his wife. Doe was gazing at him with tears cascading down her face. Her pallor was bone-white. Her eyes were huge, scared and sorrowful.

“There’s no fire,” he whispered.

“There’s no fire,” she whispered back.

He closed his eyes again. Everything he’d subconsciously been denying to himself these last few weeks, now crashed in on him. The red-striped spiders everywhere. The glaring rower. The two disembodied voices. Now this.

Cold fear crawling through his gut, Sullivan Rafferty lowered his head to his wife’s shoulder and burst into tears. Her arms went around him tight. He clutched her, gripping her body as a falling man gripped the cliff face.

“Doe,” he choked. His tears poured on her neck.

Hers wetted his hair. “Treasure…my treasure…”

******

SECTION II: FORGIVEN CRIMES

“Oh, silhouette. She’s growing tall and fine. She’s got my back. She’ll follow me down every street, no matter what my crime.” Gregory Alan Isakov, Amsterdam.

They held each other until their tears ran the course. This took a while. Even after their weeping stopped, both needed time for the sniffling and sobbing breaths to pass.

Only then did Sullivan lift his head from her shoulder and look her in the face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, face with a deeper flush of rose. And it was his fault.

“I’m sorry.”

Doe brushed away the last of his tears. “I wasn’t owed that apology.” Her voice was congested. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make us something to drink and we’ll talk.”

Sullivan nodded. He had neither the will nor strength to resist as she took him by the hand, leading him down the corridor. She turned on the hall light as they went. He didn’t fucking dare look back into her bedroom to check if the fire hallucination was still ongoing.

Led by her hand, they went downstairs to the kitchen. She turned on the stovetop light. It lit the space without being overbright.

Doe looked at him. “This room…it’s alright with you?”

Sullivan flicked his eyes around the space. Nothing seemed off. There was nothing else but the sink, stove, oven, table, fridge and other appliances. Everything was as it should be. The clock ticked 3:00am.

He nodded at her.

She nodded back. “Go sit down.”

He obeyed, watching in silence as she got busy making adult hot chocolate. She’d never be able to cook worth a damn, but her drinks? Those were good.

Doe threw a handful of chocolate pellets in a pan and dumped in skim milk. After she turned off the heat, she poured in a tumbler’s worth of amaretto. Emptying the drink into two mugs, she brought them to the table, set one in front of him, and sat down opposite.

“Thanks,” he muttered, to which she nodded.

They drank without speaking for few minutes, then Doe put down her mug and looked him dead in the eye. “Is this the first time you’ve had a hallucination?”

Sullivan also set his mug aside. “No. Pretty sure I’ve had others. This one was just the most…intense.”

Doe nodded again. She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “When did they start?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Okay.” She took a breath. “Okay. Just the hallucinations? Or is there anything else?”

Sullivan also breathed. “I hear things sometimes. Started the same day as the hallucinations.”

“What things?”

“Voices.”

At this, tears filled his wife’s eyes again. But they didn’t fall this time. She merely took another breath and asked, “What kind of voices?”

“Two distinct ones. One is paranoid. The other one…” He swallowed as shame–pure unadulterated shame–filled him. “The other one gives commands.”

Doe appraised him awhile. “What sort of commands?”

He didn’t answer this question. He couldn’t. Not even to her. Especially not to her. He couldn’t even hold her eye any longer.

“That bad, huh?” she said quietly.

Sullivan swallowed tears. He opened his mouth to swear that he would never harm her or anyone else, but couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Yeah, he was sure he wouldn’t harm her right now, but what about tomorrow? What about next week? Next month? What if something suddenly overcame him and, in that instant while he wasn’t himself, he attacked her?

He didn’t believe he’d fall to that level, but he couldn’t completely rule it out either. More shame came, along with that crawling fear.

The fear of his own self.

Yet, there was something he could say in fairness to them both. “Doesn’t mean I’d carry out the commands,” he replied, barely meeting her gaze. “I can still judge right from wrong. I’ve got my free will. I’m in control of my actions.”

She’s going to be afraid of you, no matter what you say. How long before she runs away? She’s terrified already. She’s plotting her escape. Look in her eyes and you’ll see her wickedness. She has no soul. She’s going to leave you. You’re going to be alone.

Doing his hardest to ignore this, Sullivan finished, “I’d never want to harm you.”

It was an intentional distinction between ‘I’d never harm you’ and ‘I’d never want to harm you’. Maybe she noticed it. Maybe she didn’t. Either way, Doe nodded her head.

“You wouldn’t harm me.” Her voice was unusually tender. “You’d walk through fire for me, though.”

This broke Sullivan. Putting his head in his hands, the fucking tears came again. Prickling his eyes and streaking down his face. He sucked in a breath, fighting the sobs to no avail.

Chair legs scraped the floor, footsteps sounded, and Doe was at his side. She sat across his lap. Her arms went around him. Her hands caressed. Her kisses trailed over his forehead. Moving one hand from his face, he wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her close.

Once he’d gotten a hold of himself again, he cleared his throat and looked at her. “Thanks for saying that.”

“I should be the one thanking you. You were trying to save me.”

“I don’t know if that means much. I didn’t think it through. Just did it on instinct.”

“That’s the point, Sullivan.”

He didn’t have as much faith as she seemed to, but he nodded. “I’m still going to need you to promise me something. I’m obviously not normal anymore, so if I ever get out of control and you get scared or can’t handle it, call 911. I won’t hold it against you once I’m back to my senses.”

Now there was annoyance in her eyes. “That won’t be needed.”

“I hope not.” He placed both hands on her back. “But I mean what I say about you not getting hurt. If I ever attack you, call 911. Promise me that.”

The annoyed look intensified. “Sullivan–”

His hands tightened around her ribcage. Tight enough to cut her off. “You’re strong for a woman, Doe. But it wouldn’t be a contest. Not with me. Either promise me you’d call for help, or I’ll go now and pack a bag.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah. If I don’t get that promise, I’ll pack my shit and leave at first light. I’ll get a hotel then an apartment. Up to you.”

Doe gave him a dirty look. “Fine. I promise. Dimwit.”

The insult made him smile a little, but the amusement was fleeting. Almost immediately, the fear was crawling inside him again.

“It won’t be necessary,” she repeated. “We’ll get things under control.” She laid a hand on his cheek. “You need to see a psychiatrist.”

Yeah, he did. He nodded.

“Because from what you’re seeing and hearing, I think this might be schi–”

Sullivan couldn’t let her say it. He knew the word she was about to say, because ever since they’d begun weeping outside her bedroom, it was the same word he hadn’t let himself think. A terrifying word. Once it was spoken–or thought–there’d be no going back.

“Don’t,” he barked. Then, seeing her startled look at the outburst, he felt guilty. “I just…please don’t. Not yet.”

“Okay. I get it. We’ll just find a good psychiatrist, see what they say. We’ll do it as soon as possible. Before things get any worse.”

Sullivan nodded again. An arm still around her, he reached for his mug. The drink was cool now, but still tasted good. He took a few swallows before what she’d said sank in. He lowered the mug again. “What do you mean ‘before things get any worse’? Nothing’s been bad before now. This came on suddenly.”

Doe’s lips compressed. “If you want to know the truth, I’ve been concerned about you for a while.”

This surprised him. He hadn’t noticed anything abnormal about himself until that day at the pier when he’d seen the evil rowing man. He frowned at his wife, waiting for her to elaborate.

She did. “It wasn’t anything over-the-top. Nothing that other people would notice straight away. But for the last year or so, you sometimes haven’t seemed like yourself.”

“How?”

Doe frowned too. “You were disconnected at times. You didn’t laugh at things you’d normally find funny. You didn’t talk as much. Every so often you’d say something…unusual. Not too out-there, but enough to make me look at you twice. You trusted people even less than normal for you. I remember you once made an untrusting comment about our friends that shocked me.” She paused. “The thing that got me most was your attitude whenever we watched the news. You always got quiet and stared at the screen. Lately I started getting worried you might say something about newsreaders sending you coded messages or something.”

Sullivan stared at her, then into the depths of his mug. “Oh,” was all he managed. He’d have to question her some more, but this put some things about their relationship into perspective for sure.

She touched his face again. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll get in touch with our insurer and find out how much–”

His head shot up. “No.” The word came cold and swift.

Doe eyed him. “But you just agreed to see a psychiatrist.”

“Yeah. I did. I didn’t agree to make an insurance claim, though. That’d mean telling them about it.” His words were tinged with anger; just a little. “I don’t need a million-dollar insurance company knowing what a fucked-up madman I am. We’ll pay for the shrink out of pocket.”

Even as he said this, Sullivan wasn’t sure if it was paranoia talking, or these were his own true feelings. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t making a fucking claim for this one.

His wife eyed him again. Whatever her thoughts were, she didn’t voice them. She just nodded. “If that’s what it takes for you to see a professional, fine. We’ll keep it to ourselves and pay out of pocket.”

He paused. Again, he was unsure if this was him or paranoia, but… “I’ll pick the clinic and shrink myself.”

She hesitated. “We’d do a better job of that together.”

“I said I’ll do it myself.”

Doe opened her mouth, but closed it again. “Fine. But I’ll give input when I decide it’s needed.”

“Okay. But don’t get pissy when I ignore any input I don’t like.”

Annoyance flickered in her eyes, but she didn’t retort. Reaching across the table for her mug, she drained it, then leaned back against his chest. They sat like that awhile, his arms around her.

“Think you’re okay to go back upstairs now?” she asked.

He glanced at the clock. Nearly 4:00am. He’d robbed her of a good night’s sleep. “I guess. Let’s go.”

Doe stood up and went for the door. Sullivan put their used mugs in the sink and followed her. They went upstairs.

At her doorway, she offered her hand. He took it, and they both looked inside the room together. He saw no fire, and no signs that there’d ever been one; no ashes, no char, no soot. It was just his wife’s bedroom, with the sheets rumpled from his hauling her out of bed. If he’d needed any more confirmation that something was wrong with him, this was it.

She was watching him.

“It’s stopped,” he said quietly.

“Good. We’ll go lie down in your bedroom.”

Sullivan eyed her. If she was afraid of him, she was doing a pretty good job hiding it. He’d understand if she chose to stay in her room with the door barricaded. “Do you still want to be in the same bed as me?”

She gave him a challenging look, black brows arched. “Are you still my husband?”

He had to smile a bit. “Last I checked.”

“Then let’s go lie down in your bed.”

In his bedroom, the blackout blinds were still down and the white-noise machine still on. “Want me to turn this off?” he asked.

“No. Leave it.”

They got in his bed. Doe shifted close, her hand on his chest. His arm was around her middle. For the first time in a long time, they were cuddling. She didn’t speak. He didn’t either. About half an hour passed, and she drifted to sleep.

He didn’t. He lay staring wide-eyed into the dark, doing his best not to think of one particular word.

***

He lay there a couple of hours before getting up again. As Doe slept on, Sullivan put on pants and left the bedroom. The first thing he did was go to her room and collect her woodshop key. With it, he went outside. The sun was just rising. He unlocked her woodshop door, went in, and dismantled the equipment he’d instaled just yesterday.

His face grim, he took the recording mic in his palm and squeezed. It broke in his grip. Striding out of the woodshop, he dumped all the equipment’s components in Recycling.

Gone. No more feeding that paranoia.

He put the key back in her room and returned to the kitchen to make breakfast. There were red-striped spiders in his peripheral vision the whole time. He ignored them. It wasn’t easy, but he ignored them.

After he finished cooking, he left the food on warm to wait for her. Pouring a mug of his cold-brew tea, he sat out on the porch step; drinking it, watching the breaking Sunday, and trying not to let fear crush him from the inside out.

Sometime after 9:00am., the porch door opened. He looked over his shoulder as she stepped out. He wanted to wish her a good morning and apologize again for last night, but his heart was too heavy for him to speak.

Doe was holding a blanket. She sat beside him, spreading the blanket over their knees. “Got any more sleep?”

Sullivan shook his head. There was long silence. At last, he scraped up enough morale to speak. “Been a long time we sat together like this.”

“I know.”

“I spent a lot of time wondering why we were growing apart, never realizing it was my own fault.”

“And mine.”

He looked at her. “Think so?”

“Know so. After we settled here, paid off the mortgage, started the savings account and finally stopped having money worries, things got so good between us. Remember years three and four of living in this house?”

Did he ever. Those were the best years of their relationship, no contest. There’d finally been no external stressors, and the internal issues hadn’t cropped up yet.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Things were so good with us, I didn’t want anything to change our dynamic and potentially screw things up. Including the dress-and-suit wedding, and having kids.”

Brows raised, Sullivan faced her. “That’s why you kept shooting me down whenever I brought it up?”

“I was scared.” Gold sun was in her eyes. Black hair streamed down her body. “It took years of struggling for us to get past poverty without breaking up. Then we finally got where we wanted to be and we were so good together. I still wanted the wedding and kids, but I also didn’t want things changing between us.”

He gave a half-sigh, half-groan. “Fuck, Doe, why didn’t you talk to me and tell me how you felt?”

“Because you’d have said I was being an idiot.”

“And I’d have been right.”

She gave him a look. “Anyway, Sophia died a few years later and we all had to be there for Rocky. It was the wrong time for a splashy wedding or pregnancy announcements.”

That part he understood. “But what about after?”

“That’s when I started noticing those changes in you. I was ready for the wedding and kids by then, but when you started changing…I had to wait and see. I’m not sorry for that. I’m never bringing kids into a home that isn’t stable.” She looked straight at him. “You agree.”

His heart was lanced, because he agreed utterly. Right now, he was the last guy who should be a father. He would rather never become a parent than ever be an unsafe one. “Yeah.”

Doe put her hand on his. This time, Sullivan didn’t hesitate before wrapping his fingers around hers.

“There’s one apology I owe you,” she admitted. “When you first seemed disconnected, I took it personally. I thought you were bored of me, and I got mad. Decided that if you were going to be that way, then fuck you and I’d dish out the same treatment. I should have done better.”

“I’d probably have reacted the same. You’re forgiven.”

“Thanks, but I still wish I’d been fair to you. It wasn’t until I noticed the other things that I realized it was more serious than a husband getting bored. I tried sometimes to get through to you. I failed most times.”

“So did I, with the same results.” He sighed at the whole sorry deal. “But you still love me?”

She squeezed his fingers. “I couldn’t stop if I tried.”

She’s lying again.

Worthless gutter waste. Rip her tongue out of her head and she’ll never lie again.

Maybe she was lying, but she still cared about him enough to pretend. That counted for something.

You’re as worthless as her. Kill yourself.

“After last night, I know you still love me,” she said.

“Always.” Sullivan raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “We’ll figure out the wedding and kids eventually.”

“We will. I haven’t given up on that.”

“Me neither.” He paused for a beat. “And we don’t need to tell anyone about any of this. About…me.”

“It’s always been us against everything else, treasure. This won’t be any different.”

He tried to believe her. There was no logical reason for her to lie about this, hence she must be telling the truth. He didn’t feel it was true, but he tried to accept it on a logical level. She wasn’t lying. She wouldn’t tell anyone. She wouldn’t want him to be ashamed, wondering if everyone was treating him differently. Fearing him. Thinking he was dangerous. She wouldn’t want that for him. She loved him.

“Good.” He kissed her knuckles again.

“Makes me wonder about this Christmas, though. Liam and Beck and Rocky are going to be here. Can you handle it?”

He smiled humorlessly. “That is, can I appear normal for a few days in front of them?”

Doe mirrored the smile. “I guess so. We could just find an excuse to tell them not to come this year.”

Sullivan shook his head. “It’d be too hard on Rocky, with Sophia and all. Let them come. I… I’ll do my best. Maybe I’ll leave the room if I start feeling weird. And you’ll cover for me. Run interference.” He looked into her eyes, hoping to see the truth there. Hoping to be convinced that she was on his side. “Right?”

“Right.” She stroked his thigh with her free hand. “I don’t know what’s going through your head right now, but I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me for good, Sullivan.”

In that instant, he was embarrassed for ever doubting. The doubts would probably soon return, but for this fleeting moment, he believed in her. He held onto that as long as he could, with his lips pressed to her hand.

***

Finding a shrink wasn’t as easy as he’d first thought. There were several factors he kept in view. Some rational, others perhaps less so. But he didn’t compromise on any.

First, it had to be an outpatient facility. He wouldn’t give anyone the opportunity to hold him against his will. If it was an inpatient facility, they’d lock him up and throw away the key. But if it was an outpatient clinic where they couldn’t hold him, maybe they’d actually try to help him.

Second, it had to be at least 100 miles away from Albany. He couldn’t take the chance of being seen by an acquaintance, and them knowing.

Third, it had to be a facility where all the employed shrinks were licensed and reputable. He wasn’t about to put himself in the hands of a bunch of quacks–and wind up crazier than ever.

Fourth, he needed to have a positive gut feeling about the place. This was key, even if all the other criteria were met.

The rest of October passed without his finding a facility that satisfied him. November rolled on by, and he wasn’t even close to starting treatment.

Doe often offered input. She urged him to lower his location requirement to 50 miles, or try a facility that met his first three requirements even if he didn’t have positive vibes about it. As he’d said, he ignored her input. It pissed her off, but aside from that, they continued to grow closer. They were talking, cuddling and kissing again. They said ‘I love you’ often, had sex whenever he could get in the mood, and she occasionally slept over in his bed.

Once, they had a day that could be called lighthearted. Both his afternoon appointments were rescheduled, so he got home hours earlier than expected.

He walked in at 1:00pm. to find Doe at work in the guest room, building the floating bookcase they’d talked about. After explaining why he was home so early, he’d asked, “Want some help?”

“Sure. Grab the brush and stain the boards for me.”

He’d taken the brush and opened the container of stain, but before he could start, she’d scolded: “Not on the butternut. The stain’s for the pine. Use the polyurethane finish on the butternut. No sane person wants to cover up solid butternut with stain.”

On a sudden idea to mess with her, Sullivan had given his most serious look. “We both know I’m not a sane person.”

Doe had put her fingers to her lips. “Sorry. I didn’t think. I…”

He’d have let her go on squirming, but he couldn’t hold his amusement back. A smile broke through, then he started laughing.

Doe had snatched a pillow from the bed and gone for him, laughing as she beat him with it. “You asshole! You actually had me feeling bad.”

It was that horsing around they hadn’t enjoyed for too long. After letting her beat him some more with the pillow, he snatched it out of her hand, pushed her against the wall and kissed her, leading to a quickie on the spot. His upbeat mood lasted the rest of that day, and he got a decent night’s sleep.

The only wrinkle in their relationship during November, happened mid-month. They were finishing up dinner when she brought up the sore subject.

“Still haven’t found a facility you’re comfortable with?”

He gave her a warning look.

She didn’t cower; just gave him a cool look in return. “It’s taking longer than it needs to, Sullivan.”

“You know why that is.”

“I know. But trust me when I say it shouldn’t be that way. The sooner you start some kind of treatment, the sooner we’ll get on with things.”

Things like escaping from you. She wants to go live her life without you. She knows she’ll be better off without you around.

Sullivan looked hard at her. “Why are you pushing so hard? Why does it matter this much to you?”

“Your health matters to me.”

“I’m the one who has to sit in the chair and get analyzed. Let me do this my own way. I’ll find a clinic.”

“When? In the year 4022?”

See how eager she is? She can’t help herself. She wants you held somewhere so she’ll be free of you. She denies it, but she wants to get rid of you. You can’t trust her. Look in her eyes and you’ll see it.

Sullivan’s eyes bored into hers. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just wanted me out of your hair.”

Doe stopped. She didn’t say anything for a second, then she spoke in a quieter voice. “You know that’s not true.”

She’s a liar.

“You’re a liar.”

She didn’t move a muscle. Slowly, she held out her hand to him. It was seemingly in appeal, but he knew it was a trick. Did she think he was so stupid that he couldn’t see through the act?

“Sullivan, treasure–”

“I said you’re a lying fucking cunt.” He spat the words at her and swung away. He couldn’t stand the sight of her any longer, and damned if he’d listen to any more lies.

He strode to the front door, out of the house and towards the pier.

The brisk pace let off some of his steam. The night air cooled him still more. When he reached the pier, the open sky with its stars and full Beaver Moon, relaxed him the rest of the way.

Sitting on the pier, Sullivan gazed at the sky for an hour straight. He couldn’t seem to direct his eyeballs away.

Liars deserved to be called what they were. But…what if someone possibly wasn’t a liar but still got called one? Just what if…what if she hadn’t completely been lying? In that case, hadn’t he been unfair to her?

He pulled his knees up, putting his head in them. He’d hurt her. The thing he never wanted to do.

Shame kept him hunched over for another hour before he started home. It was late by then–well past his self-mandated bedtime–but there was a light burning when he reached the house.

He expected that he’d have to go look for her in the woodshop, but she was sitting on the stairs. She stood as he approached, watching him with careful eyes. He didn’t go all the way up to her. He kept distance, as she probably wanted him to.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Her expression didn’t change, but she nodded.

“I’ll try harder to find a clinic.”

She nodded again.

His heart broke. She wasn’t saying anything. Why wasn’t she saying anything? Had he really blown it this time? Was she really going to leave him now?

This was a constant fear. One of the saddest things to him, was that he was probably more afraid of her than she was of him. Not caring how pathetic it sounded, he asked: “Can I kiss you? Please?”

There was no hesitation. Doe spread her arms.

Sullivan walked into them, squeezing her. He kissed her lips, her face, her hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick. I love you. I’m sorry…”

She returned his kisses, lips clinging. “It’s okay. We’re good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She kissed him again. “I’m sure.”

They went to his bed together. Neither of them were in the mood for sex, but they cuddled until she fell asleep. Thankfully, the next morning, things seemed back to their new normal.

His difficult moments weren’t limited to when he was at home. Work was sometimes a battle too. There, he also didn’t always nail it.

His worst workday was in late November. He arrived at an afternoon appointment in Beckers Corners. The site was an old all-brick building being converted to a coffeehouse. It needed to meet rigorous fire safety standards, so it was going to be an involved assessment.

This was fine. The problem was that when he met the property owner, Sullivan instantly got a bad vibe. Everything about the guy was repulsive; the glib way he spoke, the wideness of his smile, and his eyes. His eyes were wrong.

He shouldn’t be alive. You know what to do. Take him out. Take one of these bricks and crush his skull. Rid the world of his evil.

Sullivan shook hands with the man, holding his gaze. Yeah, those eyes were bad.

Crush his skull. Do it, you coward. Now.

Sullivan glanced at the nearby pile of bricks.

“Great meeting you Mr. Rafferty,” the guy said with his toothy grin. Those eyes were bright. “Where do we begin? I know we’ve got a lot to get through.”

Do it.

Sullivan broke eye contact. If he kept looking the man in the eye, it was possible he might…