Barbara still stood at the stove when I walked back into the kitchen. Her glass was full again. She smiled as I poured more for myself. Wordlessly, we clinked glasses and drank. “Ten more minutes,” she said. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Do you want me to set the table?” I asked.

“I’ve got it. Go and relax.”

I turned for the living room and the deep, soft couch. Ten minutes sounded good.

“Douglas stopped by,” my wife announced. I stopped and turned.

“What?”

“Yeah, a routine visit, he said. Just to talk about the night Ezra disappeared.”

“Routine,” I repeated.

“To fill in the blanks, he said. For his forms.”

“His forms.”

She looked quizzically at me. “Why are you repeating what I say?” she asked.

“Am I?”

“Yes. Almost every word.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was.”

“Honestly, Work.” She laughed. “Sometimes.” She turned back to the stove, her hand on a wooden spoon. I stood rooted, dimly aware that numbness was becoming my normal state of existence.

“What did you tell him?” I finally asked.

“The truth,” she said. “What else?”

“Of course the truth, Barbara, but what specifically?”

“Don’t snap at me, Work,” she said. “I’m trying…” She trailed off, gesturing with the spoon at the cluttered kitchen. Drops of something yellow landed on the counter and I stared at them because I couldn’t meet her eyes. When I did look up, I saw that she had her hand over her mouth and tears shimmered in eyes turned to the floor. Another man would have gone to her and put his arms around her, but my soul was already black with lies.

I gave her an awkward minute and she pulled herself together. “What did you tell him?” I asked again, more gently this time.

“Just what little I know. You’ve never told me much.” Her voice was small. “I told him that after going to the hospital with”-she paused, barely able to finish the sentence; she’d almost said my mother’s corpse-“with your mother, you went to your father’s house. Then you came here. I told him how upset you were, you and Jean.” She looked down again. “About how you two argued.”

I stopped her. “I told you about that?”

“Not what you argued about. Not the words. Just that you fought about something. You were very upset.”

“What else?”

“Jesus, Work. What is all this?”

“Just tell me, please.”

“Nothing else to tell. He wanted to know where you were that night and I told him you were here. He thanked me and left. That’s it.”

Thank God. But I had to test her. I had to be sure.

I made my voice casual. “Could you swear that I was here all night? Could you testify to that?”

“You’re scaring me, Work.”

“No reason to be scared,” I assured her. “It’s just the lawyer in me. I know how some people might think, and it’s best if we’re clear on this.”

She stepped closer, stopping in the kitchen door. She still held the spoon. Her eyes were very steady, and she lowered her voice, as if to give her words a special emphasis. “I would know if you’d left,” she stated simply, and something in her face made me wonder if she knew the truth. That I had left. That I’d spent long hours weeping on Vanessa’s shoulder before creeping back into our bed an hour before dawn, scared weak that she would wake up.

“You were here,” she said. “With me. There can be no question about that.”

I smiled, praying this time that my face would remain intact. “Good. Then we’re settled. Thank you, Barbara.” I rubbed my hands together. “Dinner smells great,” I added lamely, turning away as quickly as might seem reasonable. I almost made it to the couch, when a thought stopped me. “What time did Douglas come by?”

“Four o’clock,” she told me, and I sat down on the couch. Four o’clock. An hour before I spoke to him in the parking lot. I was wrong, then. Our friendship didn’t die when he questioned me; the corpse was already cold and starting to stink. The fat bastard was testing me.

Dinner would have been great if I could have tasted it. We had caramelized Brie with slivered almonds, Caesar salad, beef Wellington, and fresh bread. The chardonnay turned out to be Australian. My wife was beautiful in the candlelight and at times I thought that maybe I’d misjudged her. She made clever remarks at the expense of no one, spoke of current events and a book we’d both read. Occasionally, her hand touched mine. I grew mellow with wine and hope. By half past nine, I thought maybe we had a chance after all. It didn’t last long.

The plates had been cleared away, stacked in the sink for the people we’d be the next day. The remnants of dessert littered the table and we were halfway through a coffee and Baileys. A quiet contentment filled me, and I looked forward to loving her for the first time in forever. Her hand was on my leg.

“So tell me,” she said, leaning closer, seeming to offer herself. “When do you think we’ll move?” The question caught me by surprise. I didn’t understand, but her eyes had a new glitter and I felt myself sobering, almost against my will. She sipped her wine, her eyes dark above the pale half-moon of the glass’s edge. She waited in silence, as if only for me to pluck a date from the air.

“Move where?” I asked, because I had no choice. I dreaded her answer, mainly because I knew what it would be.

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t joke,” she said.

The last of my pleasure vanished, devoured by the cruel hunger in her voice. “I’m not,” I said. “Are you?”

I watched as her face softened but saw that it was forced. The muscles still clenched in her once-lovely jawline.

“Into Ezra’s house. Into our new house.”

“What in the world makes you think that we’re moving into that house?”

“I just thought… I mean…”

“Damn it, Barbara, we can barely afford this house, and it’s not even half the size of my father’s.”

“It’s such a lovely home,” she said. “I just assumed…”

“You assumed we’d move into an eight-thousand-square-foot house we can’t afford to heat?”

“But the will-”

“I don’t even know what’s in the will!” I exclaimed. “I don’t have a clue!”

“But Glena said-”

I exploded. “Glena! I should have known. Is that what you two were talking about last night?” I thought of the miserable hours I’d spent in the garage while my wife and her detestable friend planned Barbara’s rise to eminence. “You had it all planned out.”

A change came over Barbara as I watched. Suddenly, she was cool dispassion.

“It makes sense if we’re going to start a family,” she said, then sipped her wine and watched me with a hunter’s patience. It was not fair. Barbara knew how much I wanted children. I sighed deeply and poured straight Baileys into my cup.

“Are you blackmailing me?” I asked. “Children for Ezra’s house?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I’m merely suggesting that children would be a logical next step for us, and we could use the extra space.”

I tried to calm myself. Exhaustion descended upon me like wet cement, but I decided nonetheless that it might be time to face some ugly truths. Vanessa’s tear-streaked face came unbidden to my mind. I thought of the things she’d said, the truths she’d thrust under my nose, truths so abhorrent to me that I’d crushed her rather than face them.

“How come we never had children, Barbara?” I asked.

“You said you needed to concentrate on your career.” Her response was immediate and unrehearsed, and I realized that she believed it. An appalling silence filled my head, an arctic calm.

“I never said that,” I assured her. The very thought of it was absurd. I had sacrificed more than enough to the hollow idol of my law career. I would never give up the idea of children.

“You most certainly did,” Barbara said. “I remember it clearly. You wanted to concentrate on the practice.”

“Every time I brought up children, Barbara, you told me that you weren’t ready yet. You changed the subject. If it had been up to me, we’d have five by now.”