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death.
    Her breathing became more labored with each moment that passed, the voice of Gaspar Sencio’s child within her, begging her, imploring her not to pull the trigger, not to take the life of his father, not to—
    ‘How’s it going?’
    Roger St John was a man of just over forty years, just over six feet, trim and athletic, collegiately handsome. A perfect salesman specimen, Amelia had thought when they met at a party at Case Western Reserve University so many years ago. But if Roger St John had anything, he had grace. A track star in high school, Roger St John could sneak up on a mongoose.
    ‘Let’s see . . .’ Amelia began, ‘except for needing my Huggies changed, I’m okay.’
    ‘Did I scare you?’ he asked, for the three thousandth time since they were married.
    She had caught him in The Big Lie two weeks earlier, a lie that had led to a wine-soaked confessional, a tearful gusher of a Saturday night that had Roger ultimately owning up to a brief, dispassionate, midlife-crisis affair with Michelle Roth, the Fashion Bug bimbo from his office who represented everything Amelia hoped her daughter would not become – loud, garish, always playing stupid and helpless for the boys. Shelley Roth was a pox on womanhood, a viper in cheap shoes.
    But Shelley Roth had fucked her husband, and for that she wanted to gut the little bitch with a rusty Ginsu knife.
    Her initial reaction had been to grab the first bag boy who smiled at her at the Food Fair, taking him back to his parents’ house and banging his brains out for revenge. It was her second and third reaction, too, although she hadn’t acted upon the impulse. Neither had she ruled out the possibility of her own adult indiscretion. Why not? It would be a freebie.
    No guilt!
    As a contract lawyer for Cleveland Clinic, Roger traveled a great deal for his job, but since his disclosure, he had been spending even more time on the road. And when he was home, he seemed to linger endlessly in the garage, suddenly interested in organizing the St John supply of nails, screws, nuts, bolts, and washers.
    Amelia had not yet decided whether she would forgive him.
    When she didn’t answer, Roger leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Whatcha got?’ He jockied for position to get a better look at the computer screen. Amelia leaned back and let him see her non-book.
    She had not gotten past the title. The screen was still blank. For some reason, the thoughts and scenes and words and actions and plots all came to her head so easily, as did the descriptions of the characters and settings, right down to the smallest details, but nothing seemed to come out her fingers. She saw it all. Heard it all. Felt it, at times. So how come she couldn’t write it?
    Because you’re not a real writer, Sparky. See . . . you’re a thirty-four-year-old housewife with two years of college, a couple of adult-ed courses, a cheating husband, and a subscription to Writer’s Digest magazine, as opposed to an actual—
    ‘ . . . writer in the house,’ Roger said. ‘I think it’s kind of cool. Kind of sexy, too.’ He stood behind her and cautiously ran his right hand gently under her right breast. Although the desired effect was the actual effect – they had not had sex now in more than a month – Amelia couldn’t let him know that. She shrugged her shoulder to let her husband know that Tits were off-limits.
    ‘I’m gonna grab a few shirts and head back to the airport,’ Roger said, awkwardly, his plan derailed. He looked at his watch, clearly unaware of the emotional eddy he had just narrowly averted. ‘It looks pretty good in Chicago. Should go smoothly. I might even get back in a few days. Only four stops.’ He kissed Amelia on top of her head. ‘Love you.’
    As Amelia watched him move gracefully toward the stairs – the crystal sconces in the hallway highlighting the chestnut in his hair, the silhouette of his broad shoulders stirring a deep need within her – she had