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Chapter Forty-Three
Joel
The animals are acting strange. Somehow, they’re always the first to know. They can sense her moods better than I can, and trust me, I’ve gotten pretty good. This seems to be one of her manic phases. Not my favorite of the moods; I’d rate it just slightly above the deep lows. Those are tough, but at least then, unlike now, she’s not making trouble.
“Smells amazing,” I tell her, strolling in to the kitchen like I own the place, because I do. I plant a kiss on her cheek.
I notice her hands shake, but for the most part, she pays me no mind. It’s the silent treatment again, but I’m used to it by now.
I’m well aware of her plan. We finally had it out last night, after nearly two months of petty arguments—little earthquakes, tremors, all that stuff that happens before the big one hits. I told her I knew about the feelers she’s been putting out, the agents she’s been pursuing, that she’s really serious about a life in California.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she said. After my “affair.”
No matter how many times I’ve tried to explain the situation with Yvette, a hundred and one different ways, Gina refuses to believe me. And of course, I couldn’t tell her the truth. Not when she’s on the verge of walking out the door. I would be stupid to give her that kind of leverage. That kind of information could get me put away for life, and I’m not about to cut off my nose to spite my face.
Sometimes she says strange things, like she has “visions” of me killing her. But how can I complain? I didn’t marry her because she was sane. I married her because she’s like me.
The way she’s watching me now, it makes me nervous, and nothing makes me nervous. This pretty much sums up the state I’ve been in since I first spotted her at that dance, but more on that later.
Believe me, it’s a lot to digest.
My plate is more than a little full at present.
“You look amazing,” I tell her, which is the truth.A good man can see his wife. But a truly great man can hold up a mirror so she can see herself.“Remind me—how did I get so lucky?”
She shrugs and gives a pathetic attempt at a smile.
I guess we’re back to the silent treatment. It’s my least favorite game in her repertoire, and she knows it. “You’re killing me,” she said to me last night during our big blow out fight. “Literally killing me.”
“You look fine to me.”
She gave me a dead stare and said, “Why don’t you just finish me off?”
And then it was back to the silent treatment, which does make me think about killing her just about every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Fortunately, the feeling never lasts.
I suppose there’s too much chemistry for it to hang around too long. It’s so damn hot, literally and figuratively. Gina says the heat makes people do crazy things, and I believe her.
I know Yvette didn’t up and disappear on her own. I know because I told Gina about Layla, about how I’d helped her, or tried at least. I told her about how Layla was the one to write those letters, the ones she had fallen so hopelessly in love with. She just looked at me and said, “Is everything about you a lie?”
I responded by asking her outright if she’d had anything to do with Yvette’s disappearance, anything to do with the death of the senator’s son, or her former boss’s wife, the town librarian, or the banker who’d called to tell me about her visit not long before his death. “The only thing these people had in common,” I said, “other than the fact that they are dead, is you.”
“You’re crazy,” was all she said. But I could see the wheels turning.
Then I found her diary. Such a vast array of information. She’d written all about her problems, not just with me, but with each of the dead folks.
I’m starting to think that maybe I should be worried about my own safety. Am I next? I planned to confront her about the diary this afternoon, but then Mary Baker showed up.
Maybe she’ll kill us both. I wouldn’t put anything past her.
She could wait until Mary leaves, but knowing my wife, she’d do it just to prove a point.He should have known better.
She’s right. I should have.
I didn’t.
That’s how I ended up here, with this knife in my back. Everything with Gina is some sort of game, only she never lets you in on what it is you’re playing.
Oh, and rules? There’s no such thing, and even if there were, she’d just change them to suit her whim.
