Page 26 of The Wife

“He already lawyered up.”

“That was about Rachel, not Kerry.”

“Well, if he invoked about a misdemeanor, he’s going to invoke on a rape charge.”

“We won’t know until we ask. At the very least, the judge will see we did some legwork before asking for a swab. Maybe you can word your questions as if they’re related to Rachel. By now, he probably thinks he’s in the clear on that.”

“But he invoked as to Rachel,” Corrine argued. “I’m only allowed to speak to him because there’s a new allegation.”

“Let me do the lawyering, okay? You’re not required to notify him of the new charge. Tell him Kerry Lynch’s name came up in your investigation, something low-key like that. See how he responds.”

“Now you’re telling me how to do my job?”

“Fair enough. Enjoy your chimichangas or whatever.”

“Enjoy your turkey sandwich on whole grain.”

“Please tell me that was a lucky guess.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, smiling, as she hung up.

18

As each hour passed, I could almost feel the rest of the world caring less and less about Jason and whatever it was that intern may have said about him.

Jason’s attorney hadn’t gotten an official assurance that he wouldn’t be charged criminally, but she said that wasn’t unusual. You either got charged or you didn’t.

Rachel had stopped coming to work, as one would expect, but it had been three days since the news broke, and she hadn’t filed a formal complaint with the university or done anything else to pursue the matter. The three remaining interns—including Wilson Stewart—told Zack that they assumed Rachel was embarrassed that her complaint had spiraled so out of control. The dean had not asked for any further meetings with Jason after their initial conversation about the police report. Jason hadn’t lost any clients. He had even managed to record an episode of his podcast without mentioning the scandal.

By the time I finished cleaning up after dinner, it actually felt like the incident might be in our rearview mirror.

In retrospect, I must have felt like we were safely back into our normal life, because I believed Jason when he told me that I had no reason to worry when the police knocked on our door that night.

It was three knocks, actually. The sound of the brass gargoyle against wood is full and aggressive, not to be ignored.

I was doing my nighttime ritual early that night, right after dinner. It seemed to gain an extra step with each additional year of my life as a woman—cleanser, toner, moisturizer, eye cream, neck serum, flossing, and brushing. I froze on instinct.

I imagined the hand holding the knocker. Wondered who the hand belonged to. Wondered if they were alone.

And then I heard Jason letting someone in. Did he even pause to ask who it was? Did he look through the peephole to see whether the fish-eyed face on the other side of the distorting lens appeared to be male or female?

It was an argument we’d had before. That was back when he was still suggesting that I “talk to someone” about these lingering anxieties. I’ve told him it has nothing to do with the past. It’s rational for me to be more afraid than he is.

What is it like to live without fear? Jason has tried to help me be more like him, unafraid, comforted by statistics showing that the odds of “people like us” becoming crime victims were at an all-time low. I try to help him understand that being like him is a luxury. Fear isn’t rational, it’s primal. And if he wanted to talk about statistics, he needed to look attwofactors: the odds of something going wrong, yes; but also the severity of the harm should it in fact occur. In the real world, Jason might be the one who opened the door to a stranger, but I—statistically, I, as the only woman in the house—would be the one who truly suffered.

So when he let some person into our home, I stood on the landing, toothbrush still in hand, mouth full of foam, and listened with all my might. I couldn’t make out the words, but the voice was female. Kneeling down, I saw two dark, fleshy calves. She was wearing black flats and a knee-length navy skirt. I walked to our bedroom window and looked down to the street. A generic light-colored sedan was blocking our driveway. I knew immediately it was a police car.

“Jason?” I called out. “Is everything okay?” I thought about Spencer in his room and hoped that he had his Beats headphones blasting, as usual.

Jason walked halfway up the stairs to speak to me. Unlike the house I grew up in, in this home we do not yell from room to room—one of the Mom Rules.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I guess there was an incident down the street.”

He must have noticed me flinch at the wordincident, because he quickly clarified: “A fight of some sort. They’re canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses. I told them we stayed in for dinner and hadn’t seen anything. They’re gone now.”

He brushed my hair from the back of my neck and gave me a soft kiss. I smelled his soap and Pert shampoo. I actually believed his explanation.

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