“I don’t see how it should matter one way or the other, David,” I say coldly. “Because our lives aren’t likely to be bound together much longer. I intend to file for divorce just as soon as we’ve been separated the required amount of time. And since I no longer work at the hospital, I have no reason to so much as look at you again. But to answer your question, no, I don’t think I can forgive you. Nor can I ever trust you again. Does that help?”
He sits there for a second with a disbelieving expression on his face that quickly changes to anger. “It must be nice to feel so high and mighty and perfect,” he sneers. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe this is partly your fault? That if you’d been a bit more willing in bed I never would have gone looking elsewhere?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t you dare try to shift the blame of your sordid little affair off on me. Face it, David. You’re a cheat and a liar. And frankly, I have too much respect for myself to spend one more minute married to the likes of you. In fact, I don’t want to waste another minute speaking to you. Get the hell out of my house.”
If I’m hoping for a reaction, judging from the look on his face, I am about to get one. His eyes narrow until they are little more than slits. A dark cloud of emotion seems to emanate from his every pore. I’ve seen him angry before, but this is different. There is something darker and far more unpleasant churning beneath the surface and I start to wonder if I’ve made a fatal error in judgment by believing him incapable of murder.
Wisdom tells me to leave things well enough alone, but I can’t. I’m too pissed, too scared, and too emotionally volatile. “You seem awfully defensive, David. And it seems like every time I turn around I’m uncovering another one of your dirty little secrets. What else are you hiding? Did you kill her, David? Did you? Because based on everything I know, I’m beginning to think you did.”
He pushes out of his chair and it tips over backward, crashing to the floor. He leans across the table until he is inches from my face. “You bitch,” he hisses. “Are you really that bitter? Do you seriously think I’m capable of killing someone?” He pauses a moment and something alters his expression. “Wait,” he says. “Of course. Why didn’t I see it before?”
He moves even closer, getting right up in my face, and says, “Just how angry and bitter are you, Mattie? How do I know you didn’t kill Karen out of some jealous rage? Hell, you already admitted you were stalking us, so it’s—”
“I was not stalking you!” I yell, pushing back in my chair to get away from him. I stand and point a shaking finger toward the front door. “We are through with this discussion. I want you gone. Get out. Now.”
He straightens, his face turning redder by the minute, his hands clenched into fists. This is not the carefully controlled anger I am familiar with. This is different…rawer…less controlled…more intense. It scares me. I sidle over to where I left the plunger and grab it, once again wielding it like a baseball bat.
David gawks at me, his eyes shifting back and forth between my face and the plunger. Then his expression changes from incredulity to rage. “You fucking bitch!” he seethes. He picks up his glass of water and heaves it toward the wall, where it shatters into a zillion pieces. Even though it lands a good six feet from where I stand, a sliver of glass ricochets off the wall and zips a gash in my forehead. I feel a tiny sting, like a mosquito bite, and seconds later, blood trickles into my right eye.
I swipe at it with my hand, stare at the blood in disbelief, and tighten my grip on the plunger handle. “Get…out!” I scream.
David blinks several times in rapid succession, then stares at my face with an expression of growing horror. “Mattie, oh, God, I’m sorry. Please…” He starts toward me but stops when I rear back with the plunger.
“Out! Now!” I scream at him.
“Let me look at your head.”
He takes another tentative step toward me, but I stop him in his tracks by shouting, “Get away from me!”
“Come on, Mattie. Be reasonable. Let me look at that cut. I think you may need stitches.”
Stitches? I feel woozy all of a sudden. I have no problem at all dealing with other people’s blood and guts, but when it comes to my own, I’m a total wuss.
I loosen my grip on the plunger a tad and, sensing my momentary capitulation, David closes the distance between us in two steps, crunching bits of broken glass beneath his shoes. But instead of looking at my forehead, he reaches up and grabs the plunger instead. That action snaps me back to the real crisis at hand and I twist myself hard to the right, yanking the plunger free of his grip. The motion leaves us both a little off balance and David totters, trying not to fall on me. Scared, angry, and confused, I let loose with my best scream yet, an utterly primal yell born of months’ worth of pent-up anger, frustration, and humiliation.
I hear a thunderous crash behind me and crane my neck to look. My front door is wide open, and standing in the middle of my living room is a dripping, dark figure, shadowy behind the radiant beam of a flashlight. I am momentarily blinded as the light washes over my eyes, but then the beam lowers, running down my backside and moving across the floor. It stops for a moment when it gets to my panty hose, which are still in a heap near the door.
I can finally make out a face in the backwash from the flashlight and am startled to realize it’s Hurley. He glances at me, fixes his gaze on David for a second, and then lowers his head and charges across the room. I’m so stunned by the sight of this raging bull coming at me that I can’t do a thing except step aside. He slams into David and a brief scuffle ensues, punctuated with several colorful cuss words. The flashlight beam bounces around the room for several seconds, before finally settling somewhere behind David’s back.
I hear Hurley say, “You think you can force yourself on her just because you were married to her, asshole?” As my eyes adjust to the flashlight’s glare, I can see Hurley standing behind David. He has David’s right arm wrenched up behind his back and David’s face is pinched with pain. Hurley looks at me and says, “You want to press charges against this asshole? Assault and battery? Attempted rape?”
“Rape?” I say, confused. “He didn’t try to rape me.”
David grits his teeth and speaks to Hurley in a low, dangerous-sounding voice. “Look, you cretin. I’m a surgeon and, as such, my hands and arms are very valuable to me. Now, I’m willing to be reasonable, but if you don’t let up on my arm right now, I’m going to sue you and the city of Sorenson for every penny I can get.”
Indecision flits across Hurley’s face.
“Let him go, Hurley,” I say. He hesitates, but does as I ask.
David steps away and massages his arm, glaring at Hurley. “And if you want to consider charges against someone,” he snarls angrily, “look what she did to me.” He raises his hand and points to the wound on his scalp.
Hurley glances at it, then at me. “Did you do that?”
I nod and set the plunger aside.
“Self-defense?” Hurley asks.
“Sort of,” I tell him. “But I didn’t know it was him. I saw a shadow outside peeking in my windows and when I opened the door, there he was. He scared me. So I swung.” I gesture toward the plunger.
“How did that happen?” Hurley asks, jutting his chin toward my forehead.
David answers before I can. “That was my fault. I got pissed and threw a glass. I didn’t throw it at her but one of the pieces ricocheted and nicked her anyway.” He looks at me, his expression apologetic. “I’m truly sorry, Mattie. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”