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cabinet, next to the sink. Nothing but frying pans, in a concentric stack. He went to the cabinet under the sink and spotted a telltale glint behind the bottle of Windex. He reached inside and pulled a bottle out by its neck, throttling it between his fingers. It was another bottle of Smirnoff, mostly full.
    Mike shook his head in disbelief. He stood up with the bottle, cool and smooth in his hand. The cleaners must have left this, not Chloe. He wasn’t in denial, it didn’t make sense. She had no reason to hide vodka from herself. Maybe somebody was hiding the vodka from her. Maybe she didn’t know it was there, or the other one, either. Just because it was here didn’t mean she drank it.
    He set down the bottle, left the kitchen, and went to the front door, then opened it and hustled to the Beetle in the frigid air. He tore open the car door, reached inside, and grabbed the coffee cup from the cupholder. There was still liquid left in the cup, of whatever was inside.
    He held the coffee cup a second, examining it in the Christmas lights. The plastic lid bore traces of Chloe’s pink lip gloss, and her lips imprinted around the tiny slot. He held the cup to his lips and put his lips where hers had been.
    Kissing her one final time.

 
    Chapter Eight
    Mike hurled the bottle against the kitchen wall, where it shattered, spraying glass and vodka. He’d missed the Quimper plate. Alcohol poured down the wall, making the yellow paint slick. His chest heaved in fury and confusion. Chloe was a secret drunk. If she hadn’t been loaded, she’d be alive today.
    He threw another bottle, higher and harder. It exploded on the wall, an inch from the Quimper plate. Vodka and glass shards rained everywhere. It killed him to think that she drove while she drank vodka and coffee. It killed him that he didn’t know why. It killed him that he thought she was okay. It killed him that she was dead.
    He fired another bottle and hit the Quimper plate. It smashed on contact and fell off the wall in pieces. He crossed to the wall and yanked off every other plate, smashing the married couples on the floor. He looked around for something else to throw, his mind ablaze. Chloe could have killed Emily in that car, drinking and driving. She could’ve killed herself. She could’ve killed anybody.
    Mike seized a kitchen chair and flung it across the room. He grabbed another chair and hurled it against the cabinets. He flipped the kitchen table and swept the toaster off the counter. He yanked out the microwave plug and flung the microwave into the air. He stormed to the pantry, tore open the liquor cabinet, and yanked out each bottle, smashing them on the floor. He reached the tequila, but spared it. He tugged out the cork and took a swig. Tequila burned down his throat. He stalked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and upstairs in a rage.
    He stormed to their bedroom, lurched to Chloe’s bureau, and straight-armed her perfume bottles onto the rug. He set down the tequila, picked up her jewelry box, and sent it spiraling toward her closet. He pulled out each one of her drawers and dumped them, and he was just getting started. He was going to destroy everything, the way Chloe had destroyed everything. Him. Their life. Their baby’s life. Herself. He wouldn’t rest until he laid to waste all he once knew, and loved.
    Turns out he had to come home, to wage war.

 
    Chapter Nine
    Mike opened his eyes. It was light. His head pounded, his tongue felt dry. He didn’t know where he was. The FST had to roll out. He had to get to the OR. Casualties were on the way in the medevac.
    “Mike, wake up!” Bob was standing over him in his topcoat, shaking him.
    “Okay, okay. I’m awake.” Mike put his hands up. His brain started to function. It was all coming back to him, in a sickening blur. He was home in bed, and Chloe was a secret drunk. And even so, he mourned her with every beat of his heart.
    “Come on, Mike, we gotta go. Didn’t you hear your