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the curtains, and lights from the Ferris wheel danced red, blue, and green on the ceiling. The rumble of the roller coaster vibrated the walls. Ritzi stood next to the window, fingertips resting against the glass. She could feel Crater’s breath on her neck.
    For once she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to walk into this hotel as his wife instead of his mistress. But the thought tumbled down as soon as she’d constructed it. The truth was, she didn’t even want to be here as the other woman, much less the only woman. She didn’t want to be here at all.
    Crater touched the base of her neck with one finger, tugging at a curl, and then ran it down her spine, to the deepest plunge of her dress. She fought the shiver that swept over her skin.
    The question popped out before it had fully registered in her mind, and she would have taken it back had it not hung in the air between them. “Do you love her?”
    His finger drifted to a stop. “Who?”
    Ritzi struggled to collect the words, to say them aloud. “Your wife.”
    A long silence, and then, “What’s it matter to you?” The tip of that one finger rested at the base of her spine, like a red-hot poker.
    Crater never discussed Stella except in passing and never in a personal way. As though she were a notch, an accomplishment. An irritant.
    She took a deep breath and spun to face him. His eyes were pinched. “I’d like to think that you love her.” She shrugged. I’d like to think that you’re sorry about this .
    Crater looked out the window behind her. “She’s a good wife.”
    Ritzi could hear the edge in his voice. She reached up and loosened his tie. Her voice was a hum, deep and sultry. “Does she know?”
    He lifted his bandaged hand. Turned it as though waving in a parade. A what-the-hell-do-you-think motion.
    A perverse sort of pride erupted inside Ritzi. Good for her . She kissedthe tips of his fingers to hide the smile that threatened to spread across her face.
    “I’m going back to Maine first thing in the morning,” Crater said, tugging at the straps of her dress. It dropped to the floor in a puddle of inky satin. “I don’t want to talk about my wife.”
    RITZI lay on her side, the sheet bunched beneath her chin. Crater was sprawled next to her, the rise and fall of his breath rhythmic. One arm thrown over his head and the other resting against the soft skin of her back. He twitched in his sleep, limbs responding to some dream. Just like a dog . Ritzi lay there until she was certain he’d dipped into heavy slumber. Then she slid away from his reach and out of bed. She gathered her things and tiptoed into the bathroom. She stood, garter and hose dangling from her fingers, and willed herself not to be sick.
    God, I hate that man .
    Time to leave. She did not want to be there when he woke up. Ritzi pulled on her lingerie and slipped the dress over her head. She reached for her shoes but startled when someone banged on the hotel room door. A heavy fist pounded, one, two, three times. She sucked in a sharp breath and listened.
    Another knock. Louder. More insistent.
    She instinctively flipped off the bathroom light and tugged the door shut with a soft click.
    Somewhere on the Boardwalk below, a big band trumpeted show tunes. She could feel the music vibrate through the floor and into her bare feet.
    Her mama always said that God gave women a way to know when something wasn’t right. A sense. An intuition. It rushed in on her then, a whoosh right up the spine. She spun around the small bathroom looking for a place to hide. There was no linen closet, only a cast-iron tub, a toilet, and a small cabinet beneath the sink, hardly large enough for a child, much less a buxom woman on the edge of panic.
    Out in the bedroom, Crater mumbled something in response to the knocking, but he didn’t get up. He was too far beneath the weight of sleep. Ritzi stuffed her purse and shoes into the cabinet even as she heard a shudder followed by