Page 59 of Silent Ties

“You should bring her around more,” he says. “She’s gotta feel cooped up in that penthouse of yours.”

“She’s fine.”

I’m tired of people acting like I’ve locked her up.

She gets coffee every day. I know because she’s started to send me text messages. When we first married, she’d shoot off texts at every annoyance. I often didn’t respond and it died off but recently she’s started back up again.

My brothers tease me for being old, but phones annoy me. I’d rather read a physical book than scroll through an app. If my phone rings I know it’s in regards to business.

Now if I don’t get a message by nine in the morning I wonder if she’s okay. It’s what prompted me to call her this morning. It’s another way we differ. I’d rather call than text and she seemed suspicious of my intent. I felt foolish when I heard the noise of the coffee shop in the background. I should’ve gone with my gut and contacted Sergei about her whereabouts instead of kicking up a fuss.

My dad makes another incoherent noise under his breath. “The secret to a good marriage, son, don’t ever stop learning about your wife.”

I don’t know what that means and I’m not inclined to ask for further details. My father is hiding in the kitchen, scrounging for a second meal. Even if I needed advice, I wouldn’t go to him.

Dad signs off just as the sports game kicks off in the background. The SUV angles into the underground parking garage. I’m walking to the elevator when I spot a guard outside, away from his normal post.

I tightened security after Marissa went further off her bat-shit rocker.

Normally, it’s Sergei, but there’s a family obligation that sees him clock off early. As my longest-serving guard, it’s never been an issue, but now I wonder about the loyalty of his replacement.

With the semester winding down, I only went to myevening class to drop off a paper since the professor adamantly expected a hard and electronic copy. With the strap of my bookbag dangling from my shoulder, I carefully step out of the elevator.

TV blasts from the living room. There’s a pair of brown Italian loafers in the foyer. My hand balls into a fist because I know the pretentious bastard who wears them.

Dropping my bag by the front entry table, I creep forward. The lights are off, except for the kitchen, and plastic-looking women argue on the TV. It’s so loud I strain to hear the conversation between my wife and brother.

Russet’s feet are propped on the TV and she’s eating pizza. There’s an ease around her I’ve never seen before. Elijah lounges, his arm on the back of the couch.

“She got the last Hermes bag when they flew to Italy,” Russet says around the pizza, her legs wiggling as she stares up at the TV.

Elijah, the wanker, bemusedly watches. “Surely not the last Hermes bag.”

“Not the last,lastone.” She sounds like an exasperated child explaining. “But the It Bag of the season. So now they hate one another.”

The women on the TV jab fingers at one another, spewing vitriol over a handbag.

“And this is what you want to watch?” Elijah asks.

“Favorite show ever,” she confirms, not looking away.

“That’s what you said about the last stupid reality show we watched.”

Last show they watched? As in they’ve watched multiple ones.

I take a deep breath, analyzing the situation. The way they sit near one another and trade easy remarks, plus the fact that grease smears Russ’s lips, tells me this is not a one-off.

“What’s goingon?”

Russet jumps in her seat, the pizza dropping to the plate. Elijah’s calmer. He rolls his head toward me, barely acknowledging my presence.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He checks his watch. “You’re home early.”

“Out.” He doesn’t move. “Now.”

“He just—” One look from me and Russet shuts up.

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