RIVER'S EDGE

One

Bitter bile and laughter burbled up my throat in a marriage of disgust and hysteria. They threatened to escape my lips and reveal me. I gasped in breath after breath, cramming them back down my throat.

I let the stained shirt slip from my hand. The knife clattered to the floor. A tendril of flesh clung to the crimson blade.

I clamped a trembling hand against my mouth, straining, squeaking against all sound until the shriek died inside me.

Get hold of yourself, Abigail. Calm down. Think.

Gloves. I searched frantically, found disposable ones, and snapped them on. His Crowded House t-shirt was soiled the same red sprinkled across the stark white tile. Once, I'd loved him in that shirt. I used it to pick up the knife and dropped them both back in the hamper.

The hard handle under the fabric had told me something was wrong. Had kept me from cutting my hand, mingling my blood with the blood on the knife. From falling into his trap.

Focus on your breath. Pull in through the nostrils. Release slowly through the mouth.

I never dreamed all those yoga classes would train me to deal with such a horrific situation. It was a crazy thought. Insane. But strangely, it calmed me. Signaled some liberation from the overwhelming hold of panic.

Sobbing silently, I crouched and sprayed the solution our meticulous cleaners used. I wiped and sprayed until the tile was so pristine and glossy, it reflected even the weak light seeping in through frosted windows.

That frosting had protected his movements just as they protected mine. I remembered how he'd insisted on them so "our dirty laundry would never be aired." A shiver passed over me.

Flicking on the fan to filter away the bleachy odor, I rinsed the paper towels until they turned pink, then clear and wrung them out until my hands felt raw. I dumped them into a trash liner, tying a tight knot on the bag as if to contain the sins I'd tried to wash away, and stuffed the tight plastic ball in my pocket.

Smoothing my hair in place, I scanned the room for any hint of my mistake. A nearly fatal mistake. I couldn't think about that now. It was time to move. I drew in a long breath, pulled back my shoulders and shook the tension from my arms.

Body loose yet purposeful, I sashayed through the kitchen, past the gleaming Viking appliances and crystal-clear windows, looking out to neighbors across the street. Up the curving grand staircase, where six-foot tall windows streamed sunshine on me like a spotlight as I mounted the marble treads.

When I reached the main suite, where black damask curtains shut out spying eyes, I flew into action, throwing essentials into my leather weekender.

I searched the bathroom for a towel to wrap around the plastic ball, pulling it from my pocket. That's when I noticed water beaded on the glass shower door. The plush white bathmat was still damp with his footprints. He never came home at that hour.

But he had come with a purpose. Two. Only one was to clean himself off.

I zipped my bag and descended the stairs, pulling back as much haste as I could bear.

Not even my heaviest puffer coat thawed the shiver in my bones, but I steadied my hand and put pen to paper. If I let even a whiff of panic onto the page, he'd never buy it. It had to be absolute perfection.

Ensuring my writing betrayed no signs of shakiness, I dropped the note into the swirling blues and greens of the Dale Chihuly bowl. Briefly, I glimpsed the lone white envelope from the Barrett Foundation lying in the bowl addressed to me, Abigail Hahn, but made no move to pick it up. I would make no further decisions about his family's foundation.

Instead, I examined myself in the gilded mirror that hung above the foyer table. The dark brown, almost black eyes below creaseless lids conveyed none of the horror shuddering under the surface. I'd long ceased to be surprised by how well I maintained a calm façade in stressful circumstances, even grown to expect it of myself, but the morning had tested me. Despite the urgent pressure in my chest, I smiled all traces of concern from my brow once again. The motion crinkled the thin skin around my eyes, revealing laugh lines only someone who didn't know me well could mistake for emblems of a comfortable, carefree half-century.

Mindful of turning off the fan before heading out the garage door, I threw my bag into the passenger seat and backed out my SUV. When I drove past Mrs. O'Flannery, knitting yet another baby blanket while she kept watch over her neighborhood, I waved, smiling brightly as always.

Blinking, multi-colored Christmas lights edged the picture window where she sat. They reflected off her pale, papery skin, turning her a grotesque series of unnatural colors as she waved an arthritis gnarled hand at me. Oddly, I wondered why she'd chosen those when all her neighbors hung clean white ones from their stately roofs. Their bulbous shapes, so out of place in the manicured uniformity of the well-heeled block, marked themselves indelibly in my memory, and I mourned carrying away such a gruesome image of the kind elderly woman.

When I escaped her line of sight, I let the shudder quake through me but bit back the scream still tearing at my insides. I was out. That would have to be enough.

Turning onto Olympic View Drive, I headed toward the one person I still trusted. But when I approached the cedar shingles of her house, an unfamiliar SUV sat in Pat's driveway. Trying to match it to one of our so-called friends, I stared at the winged hood ornament without success.

Beyond it, a second car was parked. I gasped. It couldn't be. He had no reason to be there. Yet there it was. His sleek Serpentine Green sports car with its hornet-eye headlights.

Suddenly aware I'd eased off the accelerator, I stomped down on it and lurched away from Pat's.