Chapter 1 - THE POT
The cast-iron pot missed my head by six inches.
It slammed into the oak headboard hard enough to leave a black crescent in the wood, bounced across the mattress, and hit the floor with a sound that seemed to shake every weak excuse I had made for my marriage.
“Get up and cook for my son!”
Lorraine Parker stood beside my bed in a faded blue robe, her gray hair pinned back, her face red with the kind of anger she usually saved for waitresses who brought her coffee too slowly.
It was my thirty-second birthday.
I stared at the pot.
Then I stared at her.
“You threw that at me.”
“It slipped.”
“You carried it upstairs.”
“You were being disrespectful.”
I reached for my phone.
The camera clicked.
Once for the dent in the headboard.
Once for the pot.
Once for Lorraine still standing there.
Her expression changed.
“What are you doing?”
“Documenting the scene.”
“Do not talk to me like one of your patients.”
“I don’t. My patients usually know when they’re in trouble.”
She folded her arms.
“This is my son’s house.”
That sentence had controlled me for two years.
This is my son’s house.
Andrew’s couch.
Andrew’s kitchen.
Andrew’s garage.
Andrew’s decision.
Even though my inheritance had paid the down payment.
Even though my salary covered most of the mortgage.
Even though the deed in the green folder beside my bed said something Lorraine had apparently never bothered to learn.
I pulled the folder out.
Her eyes narrowed.
“What is that?”
“Something I should have opened a long time ago.”
My husband, Andrew, was supposedly at our cottage near Canandaigua Lake checking a plumbing leak.
He had left the day before.
No birthday card.
No call.
No text.
Nothing.
Lorraine pointed toward the door.
“He will be home at noon. He wants roast beef.”
“He can order it.”
“You are his wife.”
“I’m also the woman you just tried to hit with cookware.”
She laughed.
“You always make yourself the victim.”
I stood.
For once, I did not raise my voice.
“For the next ten minutes, you’re going to pack a bag.”
Her mouth fell open.
“You cannot throw me out.”
“I can ask you to leave.”
“You think Andrew will allow this?”
“I think Andrew is about to discover he doesn’t control nearly as much as he thinks.”
The doorbell rang downstairs.
Lorraine and I both froze.
It rang again.
Then a man called from the front porch.
“Claire Morgan? I was told I had to give these to you personally.”
Lorraine’s face changed before I even moved.
That was the first moment I understood she knew something I didn’t.
I walked downstairs and opened the door.
A stranger in a brown work jacket stood in the rain holding a thick white envelope.
“Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes.”
He glanced over my shoulder at Lorraine.
Then lowered his voice.
“My sister died three weeks ago.”
I did not understand.
He handed me the envelope.
“She was sleeping with your husband.”
And behind me, Lorraine whispered one word.
“Oh, God.”
May you like
That was how I learned my birthday was not going to end with a cake.
It was going to end my marriage.
