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About five AM Sunday morning, Court entered their bedroom and stood at the foot of their bed. Aware something momentous was about to happen, Elizabeth sat up and pulled her knees up to her chest under the covers, automatically bracing herself.
He was perfectly sober, the anger seemingly drained out of him. “I didn’t want it to happen this way,” he said, his voice curiously tight as if he might break down, though Court Ellis never showed any emotion. “I’m in love with her,” he said, shocking Elizabeth so much she actually gasped. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for months. Whitney and I have been meeting at a place in Santa Monica at the end of my business trips. I wasn’t in Denver. I haven’t been in the final cities on any of my itineraries for almost a year.”
It was such a bone-deep betrayal that Elizabeth couldn’t find her voice. There was no love between her and Court; maybe there never had been. But she was shocked, hurt, and cold. Frozen to the core. She stared at him and thought terrible thoughts—I wish I’d never met you. I wish I never had to see you again. I wish you were dead.
“Get out,” she ordered through gritted teeth.
“Elizabeth, you know I never meant to hurt you.”
“Get the hell out and don’t come back.”
“Jesus.” He stared at her as if she were being unreasonable. “You’re such a bitch. When did you become such a goddamn bitch?”
“You need to leave,” she said woodenly.
“This is my home, too, and—”
“This is not your home,” she corrected swiftly.
“Be careful. Don’t push me. I can make your life a living hell.”
“You didn’t just say that.” She was stunned by how quickly he went on the offensive.
“I have a daughter, too, and when I get back from this next trip—”
“You don’t have a daughter anymore!” she shot back in fury. “You’re never going to see her again. Get the hell out and never come back!”
“Cut the dramatics, Elizabeth.” He came around the bed so swiftly it scared her.
She tried to scramble away. When he placed his hands on her shoulders and glared down at her, she felt threatened. She sensed that he wanted to put his hands around her neck. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then he suddenly released her and left the room. They suffered through the rest of Sunday not speaking to each other.
Elizabeth shook her head to clear away the memories. Now it was Sunday night and two police officers were standing in her living room. In a hollow voice, she said to Officer Maya, “Court’s dead, isn’t he?”
Her careful expression said it all. “Yes, ma’am.”
You wished this on him. You made this happen. It’s happened before . . . Elizabeth swallowed. “You said it was a car accident.”
“That’s right.” It was Officer DeFazio who answered her. “A single car accident.”
“So, no one else was hurt?” she asked, hopeful.
Maya, who was somewhere in her thirties with blunt-cut dark hair, shared a look with DeFazio who was at least ten years older and a whole lot grayer, before turning back to Elizabeth. “There was a second fatality.”
Elizabeth’s head swam. “Oh, no . . .”
“It appears your husband was driving and another person was in the passenger seat.”
Feeling like everything was coming at her at once, Elizabeth held up her hand and said in a strangled voice, “Excuse me. I have to check on my daughter.” She left the two officers hanging as she hurried on rubbery legs down the hall to Chloe’s room and opened the door a crack. The night-light bathed the room in a soft circle of illumination. Of course, Chloe was still breathing easily, sleeping soundly, but Elizabeth clung to the doorknob for support, fighting down a rising panic.
It can’t be your fault, she told herself. Things like this don’t happen.
But she knew she was lying to herself.
She carefully shut the bedroom door and returned to perch on the edge of the couch. The two officers were still standing in the center of the room.
Elizabeth wasn’t sure what emotion they could read on her face. Grief? No. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Numbness? Definitely. Fear? Yes . . . a little of that, too, though she would never be able to explain why. Even if she could, she knew they’d look at her as if she were stark raving mad.
“Who . . . ?” she asked, picking through the words that seemed to be shuffling around in her brain, not connecting in sentences. She thought she knew already and didn’t want to hear the name yet, so she changed direction. “Wait, no . . . how did it happen?”
