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It’s too late for Paige, but I won’t let it be too late for Cookie.
I fortify myself and complete the circle, turning toward the side of the garage encased in shadows.
Cookie!
My mind rebels but my eyes can see her: Cookie, dressed in black tights and a lacy bra, swaying in a noose.
Her cheeks are swollen like a hamster’s. Her pretty olive skin is purple. And her eyes. Her eyes are open. Every blood vessel is broken.
My mind is starting to churn, I’m starting to wonder how it happened, when I hear a howl. I jump back, turn around, and realize that’s me.
I’m screaming. Screaming. God, it can’t be.
NO NO NO. NO NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO.
Not Cookie.
Not Cookie.
I grab a ladder, look frenziedly around for a knife or scissors. I can’t wait. I don’t want to touch her but I have to get her down. She’s not dead. She’s just passed out. I have to get her down, it’s hurting her neck!
All I have is my Zippo. I whip it out, climb higher on the ladder, and I burn the rope. I start to burn the rope, but the fire climbs quickly toward the ceiling.
I do the only thing I can: I grab the rope above her head and bat the flames with my bare hands. A minute later, it snaps. Cookie’s body falls to the cement floor, and I fall off the ladder, landing hard on my ass.
The fire alarm is wailing now. Water starts spewing from the ceiling, and I look her over, head to foot. Maybe it’s cold enough to wake her up!
When it doesn’t, I scramble over.
“Cookie!” I take her head in my lap and then I drop it. It’s so loose on her neck. I cover my mouth but I don’t get sick because that’s wrong. This is my wife. I’m not going to vomit at the sight of my own wife, I think irrationally.
Instead I turn her over, face down. That’s when I notice: her ass looks shiny.
There’s blood on Cookie’s tights. There’s blood on her ass.
And the water from the ceiling reminds me of rain. It rained last Tuesday—in D.C. I stood in cold rain, on the steps of the Truman Building, before I went inside to surprise Cookie’s father.
Cordial greeting, closed door, plush chair, fake smiles.
And then I dropped a bomb.
“If you don’t quit calling her, if you don’t quit harassing her, if you don’t quit acting like a possessive, fucked up freak,” I told Robert Smythson, “I’ll tell the press it was me instead of her.”
Wide, gray eyes. “What was you, Jimmy?”
“I’ll tell the media you raped me. Every summer in the Hamptons. You stuffed your cock into my ass.”
“This is blackmail,” he said.
And I shrugged. “Whatever works.” 
I look down at Cookie, at the blood on my hands. On my legs now. On the floor. And I know what happened. I know who, and I know why.
I start to sob. I’m so, so sorry.
Sorry doesn’t stop the rain or bring her back.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
    RED
     
 “Hands up! Don’t move a fucking muscle.”
My body, limp in its binds, snaps to attention at the sound of that voice. His voice. Relief is a drug, lighting up my insides.
The bastard in black has gone from sitting with his ankle on his knee, smoking a cigar on the bench in front of me, to sitting stick-straight. The cigar is on the floor. His jaw is tight. His eyes, turned up toward Race, are furious.
But it doesn’t matter. Not at all. Because Race’s gun is pointed at his temple.
“Race! Oh God!” I don’t plan to talk, but the words just bubble out. My arms and legs jerk against the ropes. I want to throw myself at him.
He looks up at me with wild eyes. His face is bruised and blood-caked. He pushes the gun’s nose into my captor's head and holds my gaze.
“Did he rape you?” The words are tight and clipped, pushed from his mouth as if he can’t bear to have them in his throat.
I shake my head, and as Race says something else to the man, my eyes close without permission. It’s warm and bright here. Kind of like floating in a current. Time breaks into pieces, and I can’t keep up. I hear Race’s voice, deeper than ever, filled