My Husband Let His Mistress Torture Me While Blind

I practiced in the bathroom mirror the night before they discharged me. Norah had left a pair of dark medical sunglasses on the bedside table. I put them on and let my gaze drift past my own reflection. Not quite focused. Not quite there.

That was the trick. Not looking blind. Looking like someone who had stopped expecting to see.

I tilted my head the way I used to when I was listening hard. I reached for the faucet and let my fingers trail along the counter first, even though I could see exactly where the handle was. My hand looked uncertain. Lost.

Good.

I took the glasses off and stared at my face. The scar on my thigh throbbed under the fresh bandages. My lip had healed where I'd bitten through it. I looked thin. Tired. Like someone who had survived something.

I put the glasses back on and practiced one more time.

***

Cole came to pick me up Tuesday morning. I heard his shoes in the hallway — that same Italian leather stride — and I turned my head toward the sound just slowly enough. He touched my shoulder.

"Ready to go home?"

Home. I let the word sit between us.

"Yeah," I said softly. "I'm ready."

He guided me to the wheelchair like I was porcelain. His hand stayed on my back the whole ride down to the lobby. Warm. Steady. I used to think that hand knew every part of me.

Now I knew it had held Carmen's face while I lay bleeding three doors down.

In the car, he asked if I was in pain. I said a little. He asked if I needed to stop for anything. I said no. He turned on the radio — NPR, the way he always did — and I sat with my hands folded in my lap and my eyes aimed somewhere past the dashboard.

I could see everything.

The way his jaw tensed when the news mentioned Jensen Corp's stock dip. The coffee stain on his cuff he hadn't noticed. The phone in the cupholder lighting up twice with texts he didn't answer.

I watched Seattle slide past the window. The market. The piers. The buildings I used to know by sound and smell and the shape of the wind. Now I could see the rust on the ferry terminal, the gulls perched on the pilings, the exact shade of gray the sky turned before rain.

It was almost too much.

I made myself look away.

***

The house smelled different when we came in. Perfume. Orange blossom and something sharper underneath. It was in the couch fabric. The hallway. The bedroom.

She had been here. She had been everywhere.

Cole helped me to the couch and brought me water and a pillow and asked three times if I was comfortable. I said yes. I said thank you. I said I was just tired.

He kissed the top of my head and told me he had a meeting at two but he'd be back by dinner.

I listened to him gather his keys, his jacket, his phone. I listened to the door close. I listened to his car pull out of the driveway.

Then I took off the glasses.

I stood up slowly, testing my weight on the bad leg. It held. I walked to the window and looked out at the street. A neighbor's kid was riding a bike in circles. The maple tree in the front yard had started to turn.

I walked to the bedroom. Our bedroom. The bed was made. The pillows were arranged the way I used to arrange them, which meant Carmen had been the one to do it. I opened the closet. Her things were mixed in with mine now. A red dress I'd never seen. Heels in a size smaller. A silk robe that wasn't mine.

I closed the door carefully.

I went to Cole's study. His desk was neat. His laptop was closed. I didn't touch anything. Not yet. I just looked. I memorized where everything was. The stack of files. The pens. The framed photo of us from our wedding day, still sitting in the same spot it had been for five years.

I wondered if he looked at it anymore.

I wondered if it made him feel anything at all.

***

The fourth day, Carmen came.

I was on the couch with my leg elevated and the dark glasses on when I heard the front door open. No knock. She had a key.

Her heels clicked across the hardwood. She sat down on the edge of the couch, close enough that I could smell her perfume, and put her hand on my knee.

"How are you feeling, Sloane?"

Her voice was warm. Concerned. Poisonous.

I turned my head toward her slowly. "Okay. Tired."

"I'm sure." She shifted closer. Her fingers trailed up to the bandage on my thigh. She pressed down.

Not hard. Not yet. Just enough.

"Does it hurt?"

I didn't flinch. I made my breath stay even.

"A little."

She pressed harder. Three fingers now, deliberate and slow. I felt the stitches pull. I felt heat flood the wound. I didn't move.

She laughed softly. "You're tougher than you look."

I said nothing.

She leaned back, satisfied. She started talking then — about Cole, about how long they'd been together, about how I'd never noticed, never questioned, never fought back. Her voice was light. Conversational. Like she was telling me about her weekend.

"You were always so trusting," she said. "It was almost boring."

I kept my face still.

Then she said it.

"The accident, Sloane. Two years ago. That wasn't bad luck."

My heart stopped.

"I was driving the other car. I ran you off the road. On purpose."

She said it like she was telling me the weather.

"And Cole?" She smiled. I couldn't see it, but I heard it in her voice. "He's known from the beginning. He helped me bury it. Killed the investigation. Protected me. He chose me, Sloane. He's been choosing me for two years."

She patted my hand.

"I just thought you should know."

She stood up. Her heels clicked back toward the door. It opened. It closed.

I sat there for a long time.

Behind the dark glasses, my eyes were wide open.

I could see everything.