Selena pushed the pedal down. The night was thick and moonless, no streetlights. Selena knew that a deer could bound out of the darkness at any second. But she pressed her foot down harder still. The speed, the sound of the engine, the squeal of the tires as she took the turns; it felt good. What if I die on this road tonight? she thought. A spectacular crash, a blaze of glory. How would the headlines read? Jilted Wife Dies in Fiery Crash. Something about it appealed, like an escape hatch from the ugly mess of her life. Better than: Jilted Wife Struggles to Start Over as a Single Mom after her Husband Goes to Prison for Murdering his Mistress.
It was easier to die than to live, wasn’t it?
But no. Her boys. She couldn’t stand the thought of them alone in the world, broken by the reckless, terrible actions of their parents. She slowed her speed, drew in a breath.
Pull yourself together, Selena, she chided. Fix this. End this. Write a better headline.
Her headlights split the night, the world black around the unfurling ribbon of road. As her speed slowed, so did the racing of her heart, the adrenaline pulse. In the quiet, she wondered how much of her marriage—of any marriage—was built on a foundation of pretty stories, a narrative that you stitched together based on delusion and hope and wishful thinking.
Little lies like the curated, filtered posts on social media that make your life together look so wonderful, just after you’ve had a big fight, the months of marriage counseling not doing much good. Faked orgasms—guilty. Sometimes, really, she just wanted to get it over with. After parenthood, sleep was the new sex.
Little things like telling him she liked his cooking. She didn’t.
It’s just nice that he cooks at all, said Beth, when Selena dared to complain.
God, women’s standards were so fucking low. But Selena bought in, always praised Graham’s efforts in the kitchen. Because, yeah, it was better than nothing. In her lifetime, she never saw her father prepare a single meal, run the dishwasher, sweep a floor.
So, sure, she praised Graham because he was present in the home—good with the boys, helped with the housework more than most, did the dishes after she cooked dinner. But his efforts were fractional compared to hers; and her praise was equal in measure to the encouragement she doled out to the children for their drawings that showed little talent, their stilted piano playing, or middling efforts on the soccer field. Not lies, exactly.
Then there were the big lies like Graham’s, like her father’s.
Infidelity. Secrets. Sins of omission.
But worst of all were the lies she told herself.
She knew what her husband was, didn’t she, even before they got married? His eyes followed other women. Once, even very early in their relationship, she’d seen him talking to another girl outside the bathroom in a club. He’d leaned in to her in a way that wasn’t appropriate when you’d come with someone else.
If she was honest with herself, the challenge of Graham excited her at first. She amped up her fitness routine, wore the sexiest underwear she could find. She made him chase. Blocked his calls sometimes, even stood him up once. Once upon a time, she’d been the woman sending dirty texts.
His excitement excited her.
That’s why she thought she’d left Will for Graham. Because Graham excited her. Because life with him, what it would be, could be, seemed like a mystery, an adventure.
But maybe, she thought now, pulling into her own driveway, maybe, it was the lies.
Her dad was a liar, a cheater. He was a vacant father, a man-baby always looking for his own pleasure. And Graham, apparently, was just like him.
So, on some twisted, subconscious level, maybe that’s why Selena had chosen him. Because that’s what she knew about the love of a man, that’s what she craved. It was sick. But maybe they were all sick, acting from impulses that were barely conscious.
She killed the engine, drew in another breath and released it.
The house sat dark, deserted. It was funny how an empty house could radiate a kind of loneliness. The energy of their life, their family, their love was gone. It was a body without a soul. She felt the threat of tears, the wobble of a breakdown. But she fought it back.
Not here. Not now.
She needed to change, get a coat. She needed money; she kept a stash of cash in a lockbox in the closet. In that box, there was also a gun, a small off-duty revolver with five shots. She knew how to use it. When Detective Crowe asked her if anything was missing, she’d thought of that box. But when she checked, it was back deep on the top of the closet, buried beneath clothes. It hadn’t been touched since the last time she put some money in there—more than a year ago, she thought.
The gun had been a gift from Graham after they bought the house, along with lessons at the range. She’d been uncomfortable with it at first, but found she’d enjoyed the target practice, the instructor who taught her how to aim, breathe, fire. It felt good to know that she could defend herself if she needed to. But she never thought she’d use it; the whole thing was more of a novelty, a very Graham type of gift.
Once she had those things, she would meet Martha—or Pearl, or whatever her name was—and figure out what the woman wanted. She hadn’t texted back, and Selena had no idea how to find her, but she knew the other woman was waiting. That she wanted something and that she’d come after it. It was only a matter of when.
One more text: I’m waiting, Pearl. Just tell me what you want.
No answer.
Finally, Selena exited the car, the air around her cold on her skin. She was going to take control of the situation and do what was necessary to salvage what was left of her boys’ lives. Maybe it would be easy; maybe Pearl just wanted money. Selena would give it to her. Whatever she had to, she was going to do that. There was a surge of power in the decision.
As she walked toward the house, the trees whispered their little secrets, all the things they knew and had seen. Other homes were warm with landscape lighting, glowing windows. Safe, normal lives being lived in relative peace. Or at least that was the facade. That’s how it seemed from the outside looking in.
Her house was quiet, and she didn’t bother flipping on lights as she jogged up the stairs. In the master bath, she mopped off, then quickly changed. A pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, her wool peacoat, black running shoes. She had to get the bench at the foot of the bed and climb up on it to reach far in the back of the top shelf of the closet.
When she retrieved the box, it felt light as she sank with it to the floor. She punched in the code and the lid popped open with a snap. Her heart sank. The gun was gone. Maybe half the cash had been removed.
“Goddammit,” she whispered, counting the cash.
There had been five thousand dollars. Now there was less than two. Her money, cash she’d saved over the years from birthday gifts from her parents, work bonuses, anytime there was extra from the monthly budget. It was her security fund. She didn’t even think Graham knew about it. They never touched the gun. Or so she thought.
What if Geneva had taken it? But, no, only Selena and Graham knew the code. He might have told Geneva, or given her the money, the way Erik Tucker had bought her a car. When Detective Crowe had asked her about their finances, she’d been so sure she was in control of that at least.
She pocketed what was left of the cash.