Chapter 1 - THE WOMAN AT THE SINK
The first thing I saw when I came home after four years overseas was my sister throwing something at my wife.
Not a pillow.
Not a joke.
A rolled-up magazine.
It struck Gwen hard enough to make her flinch.
“Clumsy idiot,” Paige snapped.
I stopped in the hallway.
My duffel bag slid from my hand and hit the marble floor with a dull thud.
Marble.
We didn’t have marble floors when I left.
We didn’t have the massive television on the wall, the Italian-looking leather furniture, the crystal chandelier, or the champagne Paige was drinking at two in the afternoon.
But none of that mattered.
All I could see was Gwen.
My wife.
The woman whose picture I had carried folded inside my wallet through four years of deployments.
She stood at the kitchen sink with both hands gripping the counter.
She had lost so much weight that her sweatshirt hung from her body like it belonged to somebody else.
There were dark circles under her eyes.
A thick black beanie covered her head.
Inside the house.
In September.
My mother, Margaret, was the first to notice me.
Her face went white.
“David?”
Paige turned.
Her champagne glass slipped from her fingers.
It shattered across the floor.
Nobody moved.
Nobody said a word.
I stared at Gwen.
“Hey,” I whispered.
Her mouth opened.
For years, I had imagined this moment.
She would cry.
I would laugh.
We would run toward each other.
I would hold her so tight neither of us could breathe.
Instead, she looked terrified.
“David,” she said.
Her voice sounded weak.
I took one step closer.
“I’m home.”
She swallowed.
Then she whispered the last words I expected to hear.
“You shouldn’t have come home yet.”
My blood went cold.
Margaret recovered first.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She hurried toward me with her arms open. “You surprised us!”
I stepped around her.
My eyes stayed on Gwen.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Paige said quickly.
I turned toward her.
She froze.
Paige had always been loud. Spoiled. Self-centered.
But she had never been stupid.
And right now she knew exactly what she had done.
“What did you throw at her?” I asked.
“What?”
“The magazine.”
She forced a laugh.
“Oh, come on. It was nothing. We were messing around.”
Gwen stared at the floor.
I walked toward her.
“Gwen.”
She backed away.
Just one step.
But I saw it.
The movement was automatic.
Fear lived in her muscles now.
That scared me more than any gunfire I had heard overseas.
Margaret grabbed my arm.
“David, she’s been sick. She’s sensitive. We’ve been taking care of her.”
I looked at my mother.
Silk robe.
Diamond necklace.
Perfect manicure.
Then I looked at Gwen’s red, cracked hands.
“Taking care of her?”
Margaret’s smile tightened.
“You don’t understand the situation.”
I wanted to shout.
I wanted to demand answers.
But years overseas had taught me something.
When you walk into a dangerous situation, the dumbest thing you can do is tell everyone what you know.
So I smiled.
It nearly killed me.
“I’m tired,” I said. “It’s been a long trip.”
Paige exhaled.
Margaret’s shoulders relaxed.
They thought I believed them.
I bent down, picked up my bag, and kissed Gwen gently on the forehead.
She trembled.
That was when I noticed something under the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
A dark purple bruise wrapped around her wrist.
And when she realized I had seen it, Gwen pulled her sleeve down and whispered,
May you like
“Please don’t say anything.”
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