Oddly enough, it wasn’t so much the fear, horror, and danger of seeing his father use force against his mother that bothered him. It was how pitiful and weak this act of dominance made his father look, how, even though she was on the receiving end, his mother had manipulated his father into becoming something so pathetic that he had to resort to doing something so out of character, so not him.

Adam could never lay a hand on a woman. Not just because it was wrong. But because of what it would do to him.

Unsure what to do, he slipped into bed next to Corinne. He pounded his pillow into the right shape, laid his head on it, and closed his eyes. He gave it ten minutes. Uh-uh, no way. He headed downstairs, pillow in hand, and tried to sleep on the couch.

He set his alarm for 5:00 A.M. so he’d be sure to get back upstairs into his bedroom before the boys woke up. There was no need. If sleep paid any visit, it was too brief to register. Corinne was deep in sleep when he went back up. He knew by her breathing that this wasn’t an act—she was out cold. Funny, that. He couldn’t sleep. She could. He remembered reading somewhere that cops could often tell guilt or innocence by suspects who slept. An innocent man left alone in an interrogation room, the theory went, stayed awake because of confusion and nerves about being falsely accused. A guilty man fell asleep. Adam had never bought the theory, one of those things that sounds cute but doesn’t really hold up. Yet here he was, the innocent guy staying awake while his wife—the guilty?—slept like a newborn.

Adam was tempted to shake her awake, catch her in that cusp between dream and consciousness, maybe get the groggy truth out of her, but he had come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t work. She had a point about being careful. But more than that, she was going to work in her own time frame. He couldn’t push it too much. And maybe that was best.

The question was, what was he going to do now?

He knew the truth, didn’t he? Did he really have to wait for her to confirm that she’d faked a pregnancy and a miscarriage? If she hadn’t, he would have heard the denials by now. She was stalling—perhaps to come up with a reasonable rationale or perhaps to give him time to calm down and consider his alternatives.

Because what could he do here?

Was he ready to walk out the door? Was he ready to divorce her?

He didn’t know the answer. Adam stood over the bed and stared down at her. How did he feel about her? He told himself, right now, without thinking about it, answer this: If it was true, did he still love her and want to be with her for the rest of his life?

His feelings were jumbled, but his gut reaction: Yes.

Take a step back. How big a deal was this deception? It was huge. No question about it. Huge.

But was it something that should destroy their lives—or was it something that they could live with? All families ignore the elephants in the room. Could he one day ignore this one?

He didn’t know. Which was why he would have to be careful. He would have to wait. He would have to listen to her reasoning, even if that seemed almost obscene to him.

“It isn’t what you think, Adam. There’s more to this.”

That was what Corinne said, but he couldn’t imagine what. He slipped under the covers and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, it was three hours later. Exhaustion had sneaked up on on him and dragged him down. He checked the bed next to him. Empty. He swung his legs out of bed, his feet landing on the floor with a dull thud. From downstairs he heard Thomas’s voice. Thomas the talker. Ryan the listener.

And Corinne?

He glanced out the bedroom window. Her minivan was still in the driveway. He crept quietly down the stairs. He probably couldn’t articulate exactly why—probably something to do with sneaking up on Corinne before she had a chance to leave for work. The boys were at the table. Corinne had made Adam his favorite—she was big on making favorites all of a sudden, wasn’t she?—a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on a sesame bagel. Ryan was eating a bowl of Reese’s Puffs—health food—reading the back of the box as though it were religious scripture.

“Hey, guys.”

Two grunts. Whatever their personalities might be like later in the day, neither boy was big on pre-school conversation with his parents.

“Where’s your mother?”

Two shrugs.

He stepped fully into the kitchen and looked out the window and into the backyard. Corinne was out there. Her back was turned. A phone was pressed up to her ear.

Adam felt his face redden.

When he pulled open the back door, Corinne spun toward him and put up a “wait a sec” finger. He didn’t. He stormed toward her. She hung up the phone and slipped it into her pocket.

“Who was that?”

“The school.”

“Bullshit. Let me see the phone.”

“Adam . . .”

He put out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“Don’t make a scene in front of the boys.”

“Cut the crap, Corinne. I want to know what’s going on.”

“There’s no time. I have to be at school in ten minutes. Do you mind driving the boys?”

“Are you for real?”

She stepped close to him. “I can’t tell you what you want to know yet.”

He almost punched her. He almost reared back his fist and . . . “What’s your strategy here, Corinne?”

“What’s yours?”

“Huh?”

“What’s your worst-case scenario?” she asked. “Think about it. And if it’s true, are you going to leave us?”

“Us?”

“You know what I mean.”

It took a second for him to get the words out. “I can’t live with someone I can’t trust,” he said.

She tilted her head. “And you don’t trust me?”

He said nothing.

“We all have our secrets, don’t we? Even you, Adam.”

“I’ve never kept anything like this from you. But clearly, I have my answer.”

“No, you don’t.” She moved close to him and looked up into his eyes. “You will soon. I promise.”

He bit back and said, “When?”

“Let’s meet for dinner tonight. Janice’s Bistro at seven. Back table. We can talk there.”

Chapter 11

Hummel figurines sat on the top shelf. There was a little girl with a donkey, three children playing follow-the-leader, a little boy with a beer stein, and finally a boy pushing a girl on a swing.

“Eunice loves them,” the old man told Adam. “Me, I can’t stand the damn things. They creep me out. I keep thinking someone should make a horror film with them, you know? Like instead of that scary clown or leprechaun. Can you imagine if those things came to life?”

The kitchen was old wood paneling. A Viva Las Vegas magnet was on the fridge. There was a snow globe with three pink flamingos on the ledge above the sink. The mounting read MIAMI, FLA in a florid-script font—“Fla” in case you weren’t sure which Miami, Adam guessed. The Wizard of Oz collectible plates and an owl clock with moving eyes took up the wall on the right. The wall on the left had numerous yet fading police-related certificates and plaques, a retrospective of the long and distinguished career of retired Lieutenant Colonel Michael Rinsky.

Rinsky noticed Adam reading the certificates and muttered, “Eunice insisted we hang them up.”

“She’s proud of you,” Adam said.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Adam turned back toward him. “So tell me about the mayor’s visit.”

“Mayor Rick Gusherowski. Busted him twice when he was in high school, once for drunk driving.”

“Was he charged?”

“Nah, just called his old man to pick him up. This was, what, thirty years ago. We did that more back in those days. Considered drunk driving a minor offense. Stupid.”

Adam nodded to let him know that he was listening.