“So she faked being pregnant in order to maintain the high?”

“Yes. She’d slap on the fake belly. She’d go to the coffee shop. Instant attention.”

“But there was only so long that she could get away with that,” he said. “You can’t be eight months pregnant for more than, well, a month or two.”

“Right. So she moved lunch spots. Who knows how long she’d been at it—or if she’s still doing it. She said her husband didn’t care about her. He came home and went right to the TV or stayed at the bar with the guys. Again, I don’t know if that’s a lie. It doesn’t matter. Oh, and Suzanne did it other places too. Like instead of going to the supermarket in her hometown, she’d go to ones farther away and smile at people and they’d always smile back. If she went to the movies and wanted a good seat, she’d use it. Same with airplane rides.”

“Wow,” Adam said. “That’s pretty sick.”

“But you don’t get it?”

“I get it. She should see a shrink.”

“I don’t know. It seems pretty harmless.”

“Strapping on a fake belly to gain attention?”

Corinne shrugged. “I admit it’s extreme, but some people get attention because they’re beautiful. Some because they inherited money or have a fancy job.”

“And some get it by lying about being pregnant,” Adam said.

Silence.

“So I assume your friend Suzanne told you about the Fake-A-Pregnancy website?”

She turned away.

“Corinne?”

“That’s all I’m willing to say right now.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“Wait, are you telling me you crave attention like this Suzanne? I mean, this isn’t normal behavior. You know that, right? This has to be a mental disorder of some kind.”

“I need to think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“It’s late. I’m tired.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Stop.”

“What?”

Corinne turned back to him. “You feel it too, don’t you, Adam?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re in a minefield,” she said. “Like someone just dropped us right in the middle of it, and if we move too fast in any direction, we’re going to step on an explosive and blow this whole thing up.”

She looked at him. He looked at her.

“I didn’t drop us in the minefield,” he said through gritted teeth. “You did.”

“I’m going up to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

Adam blocked her path. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“What are you going to do, Adam? Beat it out of me?”

“You owe me an explanation.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

She looked up into his eyes. “How did you find out, Adam?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You have no idea how much it matters,” she said in a soft voice. “Who told you to look at the charge on the Visa bill?”

“A stranger,” he said.

She took a step back. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Some guy. I’d never seen him before. He came up to me at the American Legion and told me what you’d done.”

She shook her head as though trying to clear it. “I don’t understand. What guy?”

“I just told you. A stranger.”

“We need to think about this,” she said.

“No, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Not tonight.” She put her hands on his shoulders. He backed away as though her touch scalded him. “It isn’t what you think, Adam. There’s more to this.”

“Mom?”

Adam spun toward the voice. Ryan stood at the top of the steps.

“Can one of you help me with my math?” he asked.

Corinne didn’t hesitate. The smile was back in place. “I’ll be right up, honey.” She turned to Adam. “Tomorrow,” she whispered to him. There was a pleading in her voice. “The stakes are so high. Please. Just give me until tomorrow.”

Chapter 10

What could he do?

Corinne simply shut down. Later, alone in their bedroom, he tried anger, pleading, demanding, threats. He used words of love, ridicule, shame, pride. She wouldn’t respond. It was so frustrating.

At midnight, Corinne carefully took off the anniversary diamond studs and placed them on her night table. She turned off the lights, wished him a good night, and closed her eyes. He was at a loss. He came close—maybe too close—to doing something physical. He debated ripping off her covers, but what would that do? He wanted to—dare he even admit it to himself?—put his hands on her, to shake her and make her talk or at least see reason. But when Adam was twelve, he had seen his father put his hands on his mother. Mom had egged him on—that was how she was, sadly. She would call him names or insult his manhood until eventually he cracked. One night, he saw his father wrap his hands around his mother’s neck and start to choke her.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t so much the fear, horror, and danger of seeing his father use force against his mother that bothered him. It was how pitiful and weak this act of dominance made his father look, how, even though she was on the receiving end, his mother had manipulated his father into becoming something so pathetic that he had to resort to doing something so out of character, so not him.

Adam could never lay a hand on a woman. Not just because it was wrong. But because of what it would do to him.

Unsure what to do, he slipped into bed next to Corinne. He pounded his pillow into the right shape, laid his head on it, and closed his eyes. He gave it ten minutes. Uh-uh, no way. He headed downstairs, pillow in hand, and tried to sleep on the couch.

He set his alarm for 5:00 A.M. so he’d be sure to get back upstairs into his bedroom before the boys woke up. There was no need. If sleep paid any visit, it was too brief to register. Corinne was deep in sleep when he went back up. He knew by her breathing that this wasn’t an act—she was out cold. Funny, that. He couldn’t sleep. She could. He remembered reading somewhere that cops could often tell guilt or innocence by suspects who slept. An innocent man left alone in an interrogation room, the theory went, stayed awake because of confusion and nerves about being falsely accused. A guilty man fell asleep. Adam had never bought the theory, one of those things that sounds cute but doesn’t really hold up. Yet here he was, the innocent guy staying awake while his wife—the guilty?—slept like a newborn.