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“Well, I don’t see—oh, shit!” Katrina stared at her phone in horror as it began to ding and display calls and texts she had missed while it was turned off. And the second one—“Oh my fucking God,” she moaned. She lurched upright in bed.
“What is it?” Randall asked anxiously.
“Oh God. Oh God,” she repeated numbly, and handed the phone to Randall.
The first message on the screen read, “Michael. Missed call. 3:49.” But the second . . . “Holy shit,” Randall said, handing the phone back.
Katrina took the phone and, hoping she’d made some kind of weird mistake, looked at the screen again. And there was the text message, exactly the same as the first time she’d read it.
Hey Kat—home around 5. C U 4 brkfst—Michael
And just to give her terror one more little boost, the clock ticked over: It was now 7:19. “Randall, he could come in here any second! Ohmygod, he’s home already!”
For half a second, Randall stared at her without moving, his mouth hanging open. And then he leapt out of bed and lunged for his clothing, and a moment later Katrina did the same. He was completely dressed in an amazingly short time, while Katrina was still fumbling with her blouse. Of course, women’s clothing tends to be more complicated, but even so, Randall was quick as he pulled on his shoes and jumped to his feet. “I better go,” he said. “I can only—” He hesitated and gave her a strange look—part pleading, part scared. “Katrina,” he said. “What if he . . . hurts you?”
“I’ll fucking kill him!” she said.
“But he could—I mean, maybe I should stay and—”
“Go,” she said, tugging the blouse over her head. “I’ll take care of Michael, if he dares to— Go, Randall. I’ll call you later. If there is a later.” Her head popped out the top of the blouse in time to see him nod, spin away, and hurry out the door.
She heard his rapid footsteps on the stairs as she pulled on her socks. One of them snagged on her toenail, and she yanked, ripping both the nail and the sock, and she flung it away, snarling. In spite of her brave words about “taking care of” her husband, she was close to panic. She didn’t fear any physical violence, not from Michael. But all her guilt about adultery came at her, nearly overwhelming her. What would her family say? Her older brother, Erik, had very old-fashioned ideas about marriage and the family name. She tried to calm down, reminding herself that Michael usually went right into his home office when he got home. The office was soundproofed, and with the door closed her husband wouldn’t know if a bomb went off in the hall. So relax, Katrina, she told herself. So far, so good . . .
And then—
Voices.
One of them Michael’s.
“Oh God, oh no . . .” Katrina froze, straining to hear what was being said. Randall spoke, hesitatingly, and Michael answered. By the overtones in their voices she could tell they were in the large high-ceilinged hallway near Michael’s home office, but she could not make out the words. Randall spoke again, defensive now, and then Michael cut in, y
elling, “Get out! Out! Get out!” A moment later the front door slammed. The alarm system beeped to announce that it had been turned back on and armed—that had to be Michael, locking up. Only Katrina and her husband knew the code.
And then, silence.
Katrina sat, unmoving, until she tasted blood. She’d bitten through her lower lip. She unclenched her jaw and sat there, waiting, half expecting Michael to come thundering into the room to confront her. And what would she say? Yes, she was guilty. She had slept with Randall—and liked it! It was incomparably better than anything Michael had ever done, and she would do it again!
Katrina bit her lip again, felt more pain. That was probably not the smartest thing to say. She needed to keep her cool, whatever Michael might say. But that was much harder than it sounded, mostly because she had no idea what he would say. She was not even sure he really loved her, not from the way he’d behaved ever since they got married. So he might not even show anger. Would he be cold and distant? But he was always cold and distant! That’s why she had wanted—had needed—what Randall gave her. So not coldness, not anger—then what?
The longer she waited, the more her uncertainty grew, until it occurred to her that this was Michael’s response. He would ignore her. Wait for her to make the first move, make her come crawling to him, trembling and ashamed. It was an extra piece of humiliation, to force her to come to him, humbly and penitently, and beg him for forgiveness.
Well, forget it! She would do no such thing. She was perfectly content just to sit here and do nothing. Let Michael stew in whatever emotions he might be feeling, if any; she was fine where she was. Katrina crossed her arms and remained seated on the edge of the bed, thinking, Fuck you, Michael. Come and get me!
But he didn’t come. The longer she waited, the more her defiance faded. And finally Katrina couldn’t sit still any longer. She lurched to her feet—and then paused. What was she thinking of doing? She took a ragged breath, clenched and unclenched her fists, and stood indecisively. Maybe she should just slip out to the garage, take a car, drive into Manhattan, and wait . . . but wait for what? Whatever was going to come of this, wasn’t it better to get it over with right away? If Michael wanted a divorce, fine, he could bloody well have one. She could walk away from this marriage and never look back. She didn’t need him, or his money, or this enormous house. She was a complete person, and she had plenty of her own resources—emotional as well as financial. And as for Michael—what could he really do? Call her names?
Katrina took a deep breath, put some of the old Eberhardt steel in her spine, and marched out the door and down the stairs.
The hall was empty when she reached the first floor. In fact, the whole house felt empty. Had Michael stormed off, maybe to the apartment he kept in the city?
Katrina felt a small spark of hope, which she immediately pushed away as shameful. She wasn’t afraid, and she was going to face him now and have it done. Just to be certain, she stuck her head around the corner and looked down the hall, toward the front door. Michael’s coat was there on the rack—so he was still here, in the house. And that almost certainly meant he was in his office, his normal habit when he came home.
Anger sparked. So he would act like he always did? That’s how much it mattered to him that he’d found a strange man alone in the house with his wife—at seven in the morning?
It was infuriating. Katrina stomped toward the office, ready to give Michael a full broadside blast of anger and contempt.
The office door was closed. Katrina turned the knob and found it unlocked. She pushed it open and peered in.
It was a beautiful office. Michael had excellent taste, although somewhat old-school and definitely male. It was one of the things that had originally made him seem attractive to Katrina; he surrounded himself with beautiful objects, the kind of antique furnishings that reminded her of her grandfather. And even though the rest of the house was ultramodern, with lots of steel, glass, and angles, Michael’s home office reflected his true taste. It was all classical masculine leather and dark wood with absolutely no regard for expense.
