I find a gnarled root in the crisper drawer—the ginger Nilsson adds to my smoothie every morning. I cut two yellow coins from the end and place them in the bottom of the mug.
Nutmeg used to swear by ginger tea whenever she had an upset stomach. She kept a yellow box of the stuff tucked into her dresser drawer, easy to grab whenever we had to flee a rental after midnight. The entire time we were growing up, neither of us ever saw a fresh ginger root.
I long ago trained myself not to reach for my phone when I think of my sister. I can’t call her. Can’t text. She’s on her own—that’s her choice, because she doesn’t trust me to stay out of her chaotic scams.
Which, honestly, is the only sign of good judgment I’ve ever seen from her.
I wonder where she is now. Maybe she hooked up with one of the wedding guests. She could be fleecing half of Baltimore’s Irish mob, without a thought for what she’ll do once she’s caught. The idea makes me shudder.
The kettle switches off and I pour boiling water over the ginger.
It’s always possible Megan followed Kate and me out of the church, choosing not to hang out with career criminals at the reception we missed. Maybe she’s set aside her con-artist ways and she’s working a traditional office job, nine to five, drawing a paycheck and paying income tax like a normal, law-abiding citizen.
And maybe she found a secret formula for turning dirt into gold.
That’s as likely as my other pie-in-the-sky dreams.
I fish the ginger out of the mug and deposit it in the trashcan under the sink. The stairs are familiar as I head to the second floor. The guest bedrooms are dark.
I tap on our bedroom door with the knuckle of my free index finger.
Silence.
Kate might be listening to something on headphones. It occurs to me I have no idea what sort of music she likes.
Maybe she’s napping. The last few days have been a lot.
Perhaps she’s decided to ignore me.
That last thought’s the one that makes me open the door. She’s my wife. In my bedroom. Living by my rules. She’s not allowed to ignore me.
I turn the knob quietly, ready to make her pay.
And I’m swamped by a fresh wave of guilt. Sheisasleep. Her flaming hair curls around her face, the color so bright in the glow of the nightstand lamp that I half expect to hear the ice-blue pillowcase sizzle beneath her cheek.
She looks younger with her face relaxed in sleep. Softer. One arm folds around a pillow, holding it close to her chest like a teddy bear. I can’t catch a glimpse of herFuck Youink.
I could wake her.
Hell, I could order her down to the dungeon.
I could strap those pretty ankles into a spreader and suspend her wrists from the hook in the ceiling and spend a few hours memorizing more about her—how her chin sets when she’s refusing to admit she’s lost a game, how her teeth close over her lower lip when she’s unsure of her position, how she catches her breath just before she comes…
I could test my self-control for hours, tasting her, smelling her, touching her, even—especially—the soft, raised line of the birth control stick nestled in her arm.
But she’s my wife now. I have as long as I want to learn every inch of her body, every sound she can make. I can let her sleep.
I set the ginger tea on her nightstand and leave the room as silently as I entered. Back in my office, I dig deeper into the computer accounts of the woman sleeping upstairs. I study her emails and texts, absorbing more of her voice. She can clean things up when she wants to, scrubbing away any hint of Irish phrasing, dropping every four-letter word until she sounds like some sort of college professor.
But when she’s angry? Or relaxed? When she’s cutting loose with her crew—not one of whom seems to know she’s a woman…. My Kate’s tongue is sharpest then. She’s funny. Foul. Cruel.
That’s the Kate I’m drawn to. That’s the woman I want to know better.
And so I do as I’ve always done—I study where she’s weak.
Over the next week, I explore where I can best apply pressure. I calculate exactly how much tension she can take before she crumples.
I tell Nilsson to order new clothes for her, an entire wardrobe, from lingerie to evening gowns. I tell him to burn her old things once the new ones arrive.
