Page 72 of Such a Good Wife

I’m pretty sure that if the interview weren’t being recorded, he would have taken his dick out right then and there when he talked about men pursuing me.

“So, one person tells you they think I was involved with him, and you bring me down here? Anyone can say anything they want. Did you look into their motive for telling you that?”

“So, your statement remains that you were not involved, romantically, with Mr. Ellison.”

I don’t know whether to admit it or not. It disgusts me that he’s probably getting off on the visual of it right now, but maybe saying that I was will be enough. Collin can be my alibi, saying I was home with him that night. Clearly, they have nothing on him. I think. But I just don’t know, so I sit, silently.

“There’s one other thing,” he says, and moves to take something out of a bag near his feet. I sit up straighter, straining to see. I feel a mist of sweat break out on my chest. He drops my Saints ball cap on the table and looks to me for my reaction. I look at it blankly, so he flips it over, showing the word HALE written in Sharpie.

“This was found in Luke’s truck. It wasn’t until later the writing on the inside of the rim was noticed. Is this yours?”

“I left it in his truck that day I told you about—when I grabbed a book out of the back and got his info. I remembered later that I set it down on the seat. So what?”

“What if I told you that I had video evidence of you leaving Luke Ellison’s residence late at night?”

That absolute bitch. She handed it all over. All of it.

“What if I did have an affair with him?” I ask, I cannot believe this monster has the power to interrogate me about an affair while he has dozens himself.

“Like I said, that’s not a crime. But you need to be honest. The evidence is there. Unless you’d like to offer another reason you were running from his house, carrying your shoes, with your dress unzipped.”

I hate him in this moment more than I can describe. The way his lips curl when he talks about it—in this wry, amused way. Suddenly, I know what I need to do. I stand up.

“I’d like to leave now,” I say, and he counters my movement to the door, standing so close I can feel the heat from his chest.

“That’s your decision, but we’ll probably have to bring you back in. I hope it’s not with a warrant next time. You sure you don’t want to talk?”

I shove past him and walk down the corridor that leads to the parking lot. Once outside, I lean against the door and suck in the fresh air. I could barely handle an hour in that claustrophobic nightmare. I can’t go back there. I can’t let Collin become even a blip on their radar. I have to preserve my children’s innocence in all of this mess.

He has video evidence, does he? I can play that game too. I’ll show him what video evidence should look like. I know what I have to do.

***

31

I DON’T TELL COLLIN about the ball cap. It’s one of those details that will edge into his thoughts and place me even more vividly in Luke’s arms, and the fact is, they know about the affair, so I leave it alone. The video and ball cap are just logs on a fire already burning too hot inside of him. His eyes are swollen from grief and the unconvincing smile he wears around the kids is transparent even to them; his words don’t match the look in his eyes when he assures them everything is fine.

“I didn’t admit to anything,” I tell him. “But they know.”

I wonder what will come next. If they bring me in on a warrant, they can check my computer and phone. Can they fingerprint me? I’m sure they can, and then it will be all over. It will lead to Collin, surely. The jealous husband theory will not be magically overlooked. Using the messages between Joe and Valerie isn’t enough in the situation I find myself. When I truly thought he was involved, it was a revelation. Now it will look like a desperate attempt at revenge. I need more.

Next Saturday night, Ben and Rachel will be staying the weekend at my mother’s house in Baton Rouge, and Collin will be at his friend Kenny’s house for poker night. At least that’s the plan, but Collin seems to be falling into a depression, so I’m not surprised when he tells me he doesn’t feel up to going. But he has to.

When Saturday rolls around, my plans are all laid out. I could tell him another lie, say I’m going to meet friends. I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to tell such a small lie, which is nothing compared to what I’m about to do. Somehow simply not telling him my plan feels less of a betrayal than another outright lie.

He’s more deflated than I’ve seen him since the kids left for their grandparents’ last night. Like they were the only thing bolstering him up enough to function these last weeks. At 10:23 a.m., he’s still in bed. I bring him a cup of coffee and scooch over to sit next to him.

“You should go tonight.” I stroke his hair.

He sits up and takes the coffee.

“I don’t know.”

“You go every month. If you start retreating from usual things, it won’t look good in the long run. We need to keep up appearances.”

He holds his coffee in both hands and stares ahead. His sigh indicates he agrees with me, but he doesn’t say anything.

At 8 p.m., he lingers on the couch, slipping on his Converse sneakers slowly. He pulls a sweater over his T-shirt and rubs his eyes. He sits with his elbows resting on his knees, still contemplating whether he really has the mental energy to move. I know he’d rather be in bed. We both want to sleep until Sunday night when the kids get back and then take them and disappear, but we can’t.

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