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She wishes she could tell her why she’s so frightened. But she can’t tell her best friend, or her husband, the truth.
all they’ve found is a pair of pink rubber gloves with a floral print near the elbows, discarded in a small parking lot a short distance away.
Suspicion is an insidious thing; doubts have started creeping in, things that he’d previously been able to ignore.
He was supposed to meet Brigid that night, at 8:30, at their spot by the river, at that quiet place between downtown and the suburbs, where the path along the river is less crowded, and trees provide a bit of privacy. It’s where they used to sometimes meet, when they were having their short, misguided, and messy affair. She had called him that day, the day of the accident, at his office, and asked him to meet her—she wouldn’t tell him why.
She escaped before—she got away from him, away from Las Vegas, started over.
Every now and then she sniffs delicately at her wrist. She will stay up until Tom and Karen go to bed, until they are safely tucked in and all their lights are out.
She’s really never stopped wanting Tom. It’s just a question of what she’s willing to do to get him back.
She’s the kind of woman from whom men need to be protected. The thought makes her smile.
What is love anyway, she thinks, but a grand illusion?
