Page 3 of One of Us Is Guilty

To Patrick, feelings were always complicated, but on those rare occasions when he enjoyed them, he wanted to cherish every moment. When he slept with Molly, Patrick felt like he was making love. That was strange and wonderful.

His father often told him that emotions were weakness. He doubted if his father had ever loved anyone – certainly not any of his wives, and perhaps not even Patrick. When he was a much younger man, he had worried that he would grow up to be just like his father. Ruthless and brilliant, yes, those were qualities that he wanted to emulate. But not the distance and the coldness.

And the cruelty.

Life meant more to him with warmth. Not just from a body beside him, but sharing a connection with a woman that he cared for.

A woman he loved.

But Patrick felt strange. There was no peace. No warmth. Molly wasn’t beside him. She never was. After they made love, she usually left the bed. He hadn’t fully realized this before, but perhaps as his feelings had grown for her it had become more apparent. Now, it stood out. Emotions create vulnerability. His father was right about that.

Now, he had a strong sense that something was wrong.

It wasn’t just his wife Vanessa’s general suspicion of Molly. Vanessa was smart and perceptive. He had hidden his feelings about Molly. He had been careful. Of course, he had dismissed Vanessa’s concerns in order to hide the affair.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Perhaps Vanessa had seen something in Molly that he could not.

A clanking sound reverberated throughout the apartment. A noise familiar to all New Yorkers who rented one in an old building with plumbing that sometimes sounded like a marching bandplaying out of tune. It was the groans of the ancient, cold pipes dealing with a sudden flood of hot water roaring through them.

It wasn’t that annoying sound that made him uneasy – he was sure of that.

And it definitely wasn’t the fact that Molly was much younger than him. That didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Cheating on a spouse had never bothered him before either. He was a rich man, and his father was one of the richest to ever have lived, and with that kind of wealth comes a compromise on morals. His father had cheated on every single wife he’d ever had. When Patrick was a kid, this seemed appalling to him, but now, as an adult, he had inherited much of his old man’s ethical flexibility. At thirty-five years old, and already on his second marriage, Patrick was zero for two on the faithful husband meter.

For his father, it was sex and the thrill of the hunt. His father was considering tying the knot for a seventh time. If he did manage to marry again, even in his advanced age, there was little hope that it would be his last. In fact, it would certainly trigger his father’s interest in another woman almost instantly. It wasn’t love so much as conquest.

Patrick was different. He understood two things.

He was falling in love with Molly.

And he loved his wife.

Perhaps less so now. But he wouldn’t have married her if he didn’t have that connection. It had only been two years. Not even enough time for a callus to develop on the palm beneath the wedding band he wore. Yet, there was love. It wasn’t as hot or as vibrant as he felt toward Molly, but he couldn’t discount it. He still loved Vanessa, and now he also loved Molly.

Those two things could be true at once.

Still, he felt something wasn’t right. Part of his reptilian brain was calling to him. Trying to warn him. It reminded him of thosemagic-eye pictures he sometimes saw on Facebook. An ordinary glance shows a perfectly normal landscape scene, but if you look closely, or narrow your eyes, or hold the phone at just the right distance, there’s something else in the picture that was previously hidden.

Usually, something sinister.

He sat up, put on his underwear and pants, then his shirt, socks and shoes.

And then it hit him.

Molly. The plumbing.

After they made love, Molly got up right away and went to shower. He racked his brains for an occasion when this hadn’t occurred. He couldn’t think of one. She always showered afterwards.

Always.

She knew he was married. She had met his wife, Vanessa, many times. Molly even worked from his marital home on occasion, when he was planning media strategy for his electoral campaign. Perhaps it was merely a physical manifestation of guilt – Molly had to go and wash away her sin after she had slept with a married man, but when she returned from the shower she was always just as affectionate. There were no other signs of guilt, such as asking him to leave right away, or not being able to meet his eyes.

Something else was off with Molly.

He stared at the window. The drapes were drawn closed. Below them, Molly’s shoes were arranged in a neat row. Two pairs of sneakers, some pumps, some heels of differing heights and a pair of leather Chelsea boots. Something for all weather and most occasions. He opened her wardrobe to reveal her work clothes, mostly blouses and black pants, a few skirts, assorted sweaters and jeans, some sweatpants and leggings.