“Where’ve you been, Lily?”
“Nowhere,” she whispered. She wanted to speak up, to be strong, but she seemed to have no voice. When Greg wasn’t around, he became diminutive in her mind, but in real life, he wasn’t small at all. In the light, airy space of the nursery, he seemed about ten feet tall.
“Nowhere,” Greg repeated smoothly. “Just out and about, all night, outside the wall.”
“That’s right. I got carjacked too, in case you care.”
“All night, outside the wall,” Greg repeated, and Lily shuddered. His eyes were wide and empty, dark orbs that seemed to reflect no light. “My dad was right, you know. He said all women are cunts, and I said no, Lily’s different. And look here!”
Greg held up a box of her pills, pinching them between two fingers, the way he would something diseased. And now something utterly unexpected and wonderful happened: at the sight of her pills, Lily’s panic melted quickly and silently away. She straightened, took a deep breath, and tipped her head to one side, cracking her neck, as he loomed closer. She had to fight the urge to jump up and grab the small orange box out of his hand.
“All the bullshit I had to listen to, all the jokes they made at my expense. Do you know what I’ve had to put up with because of you? I lost out on a promotion last year because I didn’t have a son! My boss calls me Blank-Shooting Greg.”
“Catchy.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “You want to be careful, Lily. I could turn you over to Security right now.”
“Do that. Better them than you.”
“No.” Greg’s mouth twisted upward in a wide, spitless grin. “I think we’ll keep this just between us. Where were you?”
“None of your business.”
He slapped her, and her head rocked backward on her neck, a flower bobbing on its stalk. But she kept her feet.
“You need to learn to watch your mouth, Lily. Where were you last night?”
“Sucking Arnie Welch’s cock.”
She didn’t know where that had come from; it was merely the first thing to pop into her mind. But she watched, amazed, as Greg’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits and his cheeks turned white.
He believes it!
For a moment Lily teetered on the edge of hysterical laughter. An image popped into her head: kneeling in front of Arnie Welch, poor old Arnie who was as dumb as a bag of hammers, and Lily began to laugh. She barely felt Greg grab hold of her hair—should have put it up, her brain remonstrated—and draw her up, making a square target. She giggled at the sight of his face, the tiny burning red spots in his white cheeks, the bared teeth, even the emptiness of his eyes.
“Stop laughing!” he shouted, spraying spittle across her face, and of course this only made Lily laugh harder.
“Weak,” she giggled. “And you know it too.”
Greg clouted the side of her head, sending her flying. Lily glimpsed a wall of sparkling sunlight in front of her and then she went through the patio doors, shattering both panes of glass. A million pinpricks seemed to needle into her arms and face. She pinwheeled for balance on top of the patio, then fell, rolling down three brick steps to land in the grass of the backyard.
“How weak am I, Lily?” Greg asked, his voice closing, following her down the steps. Lily’s arms had been sliced open, her head ached, and it felt like her ankle was twisted. Greg kicked her in the ribs, and Lily groaned and curled up, trying to protect her sides. As she rolled, she saw something that made her go cold: the fly of Greg’s pants had tented outward. Lily hadn’t taken a pill in more than thirty-six hours, and the old Lily, the careful one, had read every word of the insert that came inside the orange box. The math came out bad. If he raped her now, she could get pregnant.
She rolled over and lashed out with both legs, kicking Greg’s feet out from under him. Bright pain exploded in her bad ankle, but the move worked; Greg went down, an expression of almost comical surprise on his face. Lily tried to get up, but he had bruised her ribs, if not something worse, and her left arm wouldn’t respond to commands. She couldn’t get herself off the ground. She began to crawl, leaning on her right side, dragging herself sideways across the grass toward the kitchen door. In the center of the kitchen island sat a polished wooden block, and its gleaming surface hid more than a dozen knives. Picturing the smoothness of the big butcher knife, its weight in her hands, Lily felt a nearly dizzying excitement, and began to pant as she dragged herself along. Right arm out, as far as her shoulder socket would allow, and then drag her body to catch up. But her arm was already starting to ache. Lily had never been so conscious of her own physical weakness; she remembered Dorian doing pushups despite her stitches, thought longingly of the tough ripple of muscle along Dorian’s arms. She tasted blood.
A hand grabbed her bad ankle, making her squeal in pain. Lily peered over her shoulder and saw that Greg had hit something when he fell; fresh blood covered his chin. But he was still grinning, even with the bright red stream slavering from his mouth. He squeezed her ankle, and Lily screamed as she felt something grind together in there: muscle or bone, it didn’t matter which, it was all mixed up in a bright implosion of pain. She tried to kick Greg in the face, but there was no leverage while she was lying on her side. She yanked her foot from his hand and pulled herself closer to the kitchen door, thinking only how good the handle of the big butcher knife would feel, how smooth in her hand … if she could reach it. But she only made it a few more feet before Greg grabbed her again, by the calf this time, his fingers digging in.
“Where you goin’, Lily? Where the fuck you think you’ll go?”
His voice came thickly, almost bubbling behind her. Lily wondered if he had broken a tooth. She tried to wriggle forward again, but he worked a hand beneath her hip and flipped her over, neatly as a pancake, before crawling on top of her. He put a hand between her legs and squeezed. Lily screamed, but her screams were muffled against his shirt. She took a deep, gasping breath, filled with the sandalwood of his cologne, and felt vomit begin to work its way up her throat. And now, incredibly, Greg was muttering, “Say you love me, Lily.”
He had managed to pin both of her wrists over her head with one hand. Lily hawked back and spat, feeling thin pleasure as he recoiled.
“I hate you,” she hissed. “I fucking hate you.”
Greg punched her in the face. His fist missed her still-healing nose, but the bridge tingled with warning pain. Greg unbuttoned her jeans and Lily struggled harder, screaming, furious that it could still be this way, right here, with her husband’s broad shoulders and thick arms pinning her down.
“Get off her. Right now.”
Greg froze. Lily peered over his shoulder and saw Jonathan, his dark eyes wide and furious, holding a gun to the back of Greg’s head.
“Up, asshole.”
Greg eased off her, sinking back to rest on his knees, and Lily scrambled away, panting hoarsely. She could already feel heavy pressure high on the ridge of her cheekbone, the beginnings of a shiner. She fumbled with her jeans for a moment before she got them buttoned.
“What are you doing, Johnny?” Greg asked, blinking up at Jonathan as though trying to place him. Lily pushed herself to her feet, but found that her ankle would take no weight. She balanced on the other foot, tottering awkwardly.
“You all right, Mrs. M.?” Jonathan asked, never taking his eyes from Greg.
“Fine. My ankle’s broken, I think.”
“Whatever you think you saw,” Greg began, “marital disputes are resolved between husband and wife, Johnny. That’s the law.”
“The law,” Jonathan repeated, and his mouth twisted up into something that might have been a smile.