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him, and already being weakened by the chemo, he didn’t struggle very hard or very long.
Be sure
, the voice in her head said, so Maureen stayed there, in that uncomfortable crouch, counting one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, up to a thousand, until the water was past her forearms, then past her elbows, then up to her armpits. Finally she let go.
    She figured she had ten minutes, ten minutes before a sensible wife would have noticed something wrong and gone to check on her beloved and ailing spouse. Maureen watched the clock as she stripped herself naked, crammed her clothes in the dryer, along with the wet clothes she’d put there already. She got dressed again, in loose-fitting pants and a long-sleeved blouse, reached to the top of the closet, her fingers groping for the shoebox, meaning to burn the picture she’d found inside, destroying any trace of evidence of Tommy’s secret life, the life she and her husband had led together, in the dark of their bedroom.
    The box wasn’t there. “Shit!” Maureen said, then automatically slapped her hand across her mouth. Tommy hated ladies who used foul language, and the s-word or, God forbid, the f-word would earn her a pinching for sure … except Maureen was pretty surethat Tommy’s pinching days were behind him. She could say whatever she wanted, now that he wasn’t there to hear.
    She turned off the closet light and walked, barefoot, into the bathroom. The steam was so thick she could barely see her own feet. “Tommy?” she asked, her voice quivering. “Hon? Is everything okay?” He was as she’d left him, floating in the tub. His eyes were open, and they were filled with water. A pink rill of blood swirled next to his left ear. “Tommy?”
    You did this, bitch
, he said … but the Tommy who talked lived only in her head now. The Tommy who’d pinched her, who’d mocked her, who’d told her she was nothing, was gone.
    She bent close, examining his lips and nose. No bruising. Good. Maureen raced across the room and dialed 911. “Please help me!” she sobbed when someone answered. “My husband … I think he slipped in the shower. He’s on his back, and there’s blood, and the tub’s all full of water, and, and I don’t think he’s breathing!”
    “Slow down, please, ma’am. I need you to give me your location.”
    She told the dispatcher her name and address. When she hung up, she went back to the bathroom and wrenched the taps shut.
You did this to me
, Tommy accused as he lay there.
    “You asked for it,” she said … and both Tommys, the one on the bathtub floor and the one who lived in her head, were silent.
    * * *
    She hurried to the car, her keys in her hand, and blinked when she saw the Ouija sitting on the dashboard, same as usual. “How’d you get here?” she asked … but therewas no time to figure it out. Her daughter and her grandson needed her. She got in the car, turned the key in the ignition, and started to drive.
    “Turn right,” said the Ouija. Male voice again. She did. “Proceed for … ” The machine paused, gathering data. “ … three-tenths of a mile to Poplar Lane.”
    Maureen drove. She’d get the medicine, head to Liza’s, and be home in time for Cougar Town. Good deal! But then at Poplar, where she should have proceeded straight through the intersection, the GPS said, “Turn right.”
    She flicked her eyes toward the screen and saw a flashing red icon of a man in a hard hat. Construction. The Ouija had probably rerouted her without being asked. It was good that way. She turned right. “Proceed for … two miles,” said the voice … and that was all right, but Maureen must have … what? Dozed? Fallen asleep? Blacked out? She wasn’t sure … but when she came to herself again, when she opened her eyes, she found her hands still on the wheel, her foot on the gas, high on a hill overlooking the town, miles away from where she’d meant to go.
    “Turn left,” said the voice, and Maureen spun the wheel. Gravel