Page 66 of The Wife

“Nothing’s changed.”

“Of course it has. Angela, don’t you see it? What you described to me? That is rape.”

The word felt like a punch.

“You’re his wife, and you were struggling and crying and saying no, and he—that is a crime. And if he did that to you, he could have done it to Kerry Lynch, too. And that bullshit story he told you about changing his clothes in front of his intern— No. You have to get out of that house before this all comes crashing down. I’m not going to let you stand by his side while he loses everything. You have to leave right now. When I called Colin earlier, he said that Jason’s lawyer already e-mailed him the discovery she got from the DA. You were in court yesterday. She was stalling the criminal case in the hopes of buying that woman off—the prosecutor himself said so. They could settle that case at any second. You have to protect yourself—and Spencer.”

I was still reeling from her initial response. I was replaying that whole night in my head, looking at my bed as if I were an outsider, picturing myself with my wrists above my head, my face turned away from him. That wouldn’t have been a signal to him that something was wrong. I often turned my head. It was my way of dealing with the flashbacks. I’d close my eyes and wait for them to stop. I never told him, so I couldn’t fault him for that. But that night was different. I was struggling—thrashing—trying to get free. I said his name. I said stop and I said no, but he was in some other place, like I wasn’t there, until it was over.

And while I was picturing myself, naked and crying with my arms bound while my husband processed what had happened between us, Susanna was talking about civil settlements and assets and timing and filing dates.

I didn’t like Susanna’s use of the same word to describe that night with Jason and the three years of Charles Franklin’s torture. They were different. But what happened with Jason definitely wasn’t the same as what I’d just experienced with Colin. That’s why I had needed him today—to remember what it was like to share that act with someone who loved me. Maybe it was using him, and maybe someday I would apologize, but for now, it was something special, only for me. I would add it to my box of secrets.

I thought about what my mother said, right after Rachel Sutton came forward. Misunderstandings don’t happen when a situation is black and white. They only happen when there are shades of gray, when there could be two different versions of the same damn thing.

I was seeing two versions of what happened that night with Jason—the one I believed for the past three years, and the one I was seeing now.

“I’m sorry, Susanna, I can’t do this right now. It’s too much.” It was taking everything for me not to scream.

“Can I come over? Please?”

“No. But thank you,” I offered quickly. “I know you’re looking out for me. I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I needed to think. And I needed to read. I reached for my laptop and logged into Jason’s e-mail account. Susanna said Olivia had sent the case evidence. I wanted to see it for myself.

My laptop was still open, in front of me on the bed, when Jason got home.

He was emptying the contents of his pockets onto the tray on his nightstand. “Hey, I just talked to Olivia. Good news! That plaintiff’s attorney is open to settling. The idea of paying anyone a dime makes me sick to my stomach, but this might finally be going away. I can always do consulting work for another shop, but we may need to sell the house. I don’t have an exact number yet. I swear, I’ll make it up—”

He didn’t seem to notice that I was glaring at him as he ran on about various settlement numbers, each of them more than my parents ever made in their best decade, combined. He seemed to have forgotten that I told him that I’d stand by him through this because I believed he was innocent and knew he needed me. He thought I would celebrate the “good news” of paying off his former mistress—or maybe victim, or both—as if he’d never cheated on me, as if there was no possibility that I was leaving.

“Get out.”

“Angela—”

“Get out. Get OUT!” I was slamming the laptop up and down on the comforter, seconds away from hurling it at him. I jumped from the bed and charged at him, pushing him out of the door to the staircase. “I swear to god, get out of this house. Now. Or so help me, I will call the DA myself and tell them whatever they want to hear.”

He turned when he reached the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the front-door knob. He looked confused and hurt. He was waiting for me to change my mind.

“Go. I just need some time. This is all too much.”

His gaze dropped to the floor. “I don’t understand. What happened—”

“Seriously, I can’t look at you right now. You need to leave.”

When he was gone, I locked the door, knowing that his keys were still on the nightstand. I had the house to myself again, and it felt good.

When Spencer called that evening, he told me about his new friend, Isaac, who used to be named Isabelle. Spencer said some of the noncity kids were freaked out until it turned out Isaac was basically better at everything than they were. I was about to say good-bye when he surprised me by asking to say hi to Dad.

“Aw, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I forgot an avocado from the market and asked him to run over to Citarella.” I immediately regretted the specificity of the lie, but Spencer didn’t seem to suspect anything.

“All right. Um, I guess, could you tell him that I did want to say hi?”

“Absolutely. He’s going to be so upset to miss you.”

“Whatever.” He was putting on a tough front, but I could tell that his self-titled “ice age” against his father was starting to thaw.

I had no idea how I was going to tell him the truth, if I ever figured out what that was.

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