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still doesn’t know how it happened. Maybe that’s how people commit crimes of insanity; it’s not really them, some force takes over and does the deed, leaving the perpetrator with the remorse and the sentence. He’d rather cut off his hand than hurt her again. It will never happen a second time, he’s promised her, promised himself.
    She’s almost back to normal, just a little quiet yet, but she’ll come around. Neither of them has mentioned that day since, and at first Rupe is relieved, but later, he almost wishes she’d throw it up at him, accuse him of being a monster, a terrible bastard, anything but the silence. The quiet is its own tormentor, sentencing him to misery filled with dead space. He’s tried to bring it up a few times, painful as it is for him, but she just shrugs and tells him it’s over. But it isn’t, and he doesn’t need a degree in psychology to know this.
    It doesn’t matter that he knows men who beat their wives when they have one too many, or when the wife mouths off, or maybe overcooks the steak. He struck Evie, something he never thought he’d do. And all he wants now is for things to be the way they were before.
    He pulls the truck in the driveway, heaves a sigh, and steps out.
    Quinn is in the living room, bare feet propped on the coffee table, head bent low, fingers clutching a pencil as his hand moves over a large drawing pad. That damn pad never leaves his side, probably goes in the john with him, too. The boy has his mother’s talent for the art because Rupe’s lucky to draw a stick figure.
    “Hey, Quinn.”
    “Hi, Dad.” The boy looks up from a shaggy mess of hair, flashes a smile, then turns back to his drawing.
    “Where’s your mother?”
    He shrugs. “Out back, I guess.”
    Rupe turns to leave. “Take your feet off the coffee table before she sees you.” He heads to the kitchen, pulls a beer from the fridge and flips the tab. Maybe next spring he’ll talk to Evie about redoing the kitchen, getting new linoleum, a different countertop, maybe even a strip of recessed lights. Hell, the cabinets need painting, too. Evie’s been talking about getting rid of the avocado stove and fridge, replacing them with white or tan and slapping a coat of yellow on the cabinets. Rupe takes a long drink. If that’s what makes her happy, fine.
    He stands at the screen door to the backyard, his gaze roaming until he spots her sitting against the big oak. Her legs are crossed in front of her, shoulders pressed into the bark. The wind lifts the ends of her hair, gently blowing them about her neck and throat. He can’t see the heart necklace and hopes she has it on. She told him she never takes it off and for some crazy, needful reason, he prays it is the truth, prays she hasn’t made that up to appease him. There is no sketch pad or book near her, which is odd, since she usually has one or the other in her hand when she is alone. Her eyes are closed and for a half-second Rupe thinks she might be sleeping, but then she moves her hand and flicks a piece of hair from her face. Her skin is so incredibly soft. He has an instant desire to turn her face, touch her, force her from wherever she goes when her eyes are closed, and claim her as his own. She is a Burnes. She is his.
    “Evie.” Her name floats in the breeze, swirls and settles, but she doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t acknowledge his voice. “Evie,” he calls again, his hand on the screen door handle. She doesn’t turn or move her head. Rupe lets his hand fall from the door handle and moves away, downing the rest of his beer. She is still a Burnes. She is still his wife.
    ***
    Brenda Coccani is still Evie’s best friend, even though they don’t meet at Hazel’s Diner anymore, not since Brenda wrote a letter to the Corville Press accusing people in high powers of using their positions to take advantage of others, especially minors. She might as well have spelled out Reverend Thurston’s name because everybody knows it