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I shake my head. I don’t know what to say. It feels like they are trying to get something out of me I can’t give. “My husband hasn’t hurt me.”
Their eyes meet, and the two of them exchange a nod of understanding, making it obvious they think I am lying. “An investigation has been opened into the video,” she notes. “On account of the sites it was uploaded to.”
“Good,” I say, for lack of anything else.
She hands me her card. “Please reach out if you think there’s anything we should know.”
The officer shifts his stance. “Mind if we speak with your husband?”
Inside, I wait for Greg in the hallway, halfway between the kitchen and the front door. When he sees the look on my face, he comes toward me. His expression morphs from concern to outright fear. “What the fuck?”
“I know. Give me a sec—” I say, going to the bedroom for my phone. Greg follows close behind. He stares over my shoulder as I scroll through my texts, of which there are dozens. Dana and multiple people from work have all written. I scan for one in particular. Only Alex sends a link to the video with a text that says, WTF. When I click on the link, it tells me the video has been taken down.
I text him back. I don’t know what is going on.
He responds, You’d better talk to your husband about that.
I ask him to resend the video, telling him the link he sent didn’t work. Check your tags on social, he replies.
I pull up Facebook, and there it is. A video of my bedroom, a video of me without clothing, tied up and sobbing on my bed. A video from last night, from inside my house. A video I was not aware was being shot.
By the time I hand the phone over to Greg, it is no longer available.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Now that my sex life has been broadcast to the World Wide Web, I keep a low profile. Not only am I humiliated, but I hadn’t realized I was acting out my greatest fears until I saw them on screen. Gr
eg would never hurt me. At least not on purpose. When you’ve been in a relationship as long as we have, you find ways to get creative. Although, I guess that’s somewhat a partial truth. This is a dynamic we’ve had from the beginning. There are games and roles you play, things you know work. For us, this is it. It’s never been an issue, not until now, not until other people found their way in, uninvited. Now my phone won’t stop ringing.
Dana calls. Alex calls. A few of my colleagues email. But most people stay quiet, which is almost worse. Time passes in a blur.
Greg located the tiny camera in the air vent in the ceiling in our bedroom. It was inconspicuous, something that, had we not seen the video, we probably wouldn’t have discovered for a long time—if ever. After he checked all the vents in our house, we called the police. They came and collected the evidence. They asked about any workers we’ve had in our home, babysitters, anyone who might have wanted to pull a practical joke. To us, this is not a joke. It’s a blatant invasion of privacy, one that causes my husband to rally.
When we were alone, the officer asked if I thought Greg might have been the one to record the footage. I don’t. There’s no doubt in my mind that my husband’s hands are clean. If anything, the footage has affected him a thousand times more than it has me. He looks like an abuser, a rapist to some, which is why he is taking leave from his own company. At least until after the new year. I assure him it will all blow over, that something else will soon become the talk of our small town and our inner circles. But I know he is right when he says it doesn’t matter. There is no taking back what has already been done.
“Alex tells me I should prepare for a visit from Child Protective Services,” I say to Greg. I’ve just finished getting Blair settled in for bed, and Naomi is already asleep. She hasn’t been feeling well, and she’s slept most of the day. Greg insists it’s on account of all the holiday sweets, but I wonder if she’s picked something up. The flu is going around, although she isn’t running a fever, so Greg might be right. We need to be more strict.
“What?” He places two wine glasses on the coffee table and sinks down onto the couch beside me.
“CPS. I’m told we should expect them.”
“Why are you still talking to Alex?” Greg asks, looking around the living room. “And what are they going to find?”
“With Blair’s injuries—and that video—well, I don’t know.”
He gulps his wine, leaving the glass empty. “I get it. There’s more than enough judgment to go around. But what I want to know is how in the hell someone got into our house? You think it was one of your casserole friends, rummaging around our house? I swear to God, if it was one of them…”
“Calm down. I don’t think they would do something like this. It has to be Mooney. I just feel that. I don’t know why. And I don’t know how he would have gotten in here. Who knows what other surprises might be lurking about?”
Greg’s eyes widen. He stands and walks through the house, searching everything, every nook and cranny, every closet.
“Speaking of Alex,” I say. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Don’t,” he replies. He suddenly halts, surprising me. “I’ve thought it over, and I think it’s better if I don’t know.”
“Are you sure?” My brow knits. “You don’t even know what it is.”
He half-scoffs, half-laughs, and I wonder how much he’s had to drink. “Honesty is revered, Amy. But honesty can also cut like a knife.” He looks up at the air vent and then down at me. “And I’m not sure I can survive another cut. Whatever it is,” he says, shaking his head, “I trust that you’ll fix it. Before it becomes a problem.”
