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She remembers how frightened she’d been. All those times she’d come home and found things slightly out of place, subtle signs that someone had been going through her things. It had scared her. And Tom knew nothing about it.
side. She wishes she could tell her why she’s so frightened. But she can’t tell her best friend, or her husband, the truth.
Suspicion is an insidious thing; doubts have started creeping in, things that he’d previously been able to ignore.
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.
Karen’s not her friend; she’s her rival. She’s always been her rival.
You don’t exchange wedding vows expecting one day to hear that your wife is at the police station under arrest for murder.
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? We fall in love with an ideal, not a reality. Tom loves who he thinks she is. He’s proven himself to be remarkably adaptable in that regard. She loves who she thinks he is. And that’s the way it is the whole world over, she tells herself, watching out the train window, people falling in and out of love, as their perception of reality changes.
