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She was spoiled and selfish and it used to make him so angry
because she didn’t understand how easy her life was. Clean the
house and make a meal and she could spend the rest of her days
reading stupid books she checked out from the library and
watching television and taking naps and never having to worry
about a utility bill or mortgage payment or people who talked
about him behind his back. She never had to see the faces of
people who had been murdered. He kept that from her because he
loved her, but it had made no difference. He never told her about
the children who’d been burned with irons or tossed from the
roofs of buildings or women stabbed in the alley and thrown in
Dumpsters. He never told her that sometimes he had to scrape the
blood from his shoes before he got in the car, and when he looked
into the eyes of murderers he knew he was coming face-to-face
with evil because the Bible says To kill a person is to kill a living
being made in God’s image.
He loved her and she loved him and she had to come home
because he couldn’t find her. She could have her happy life again
and he wouldn’t hit or punch or slap or kick her if she walked in
the door because he’d always been a good husband. He loved her
and she loved him and he remembered that on the day he asked
her to marry him, she reminded him of the night they’d met
outside the casino when the men were following her. Dangerous
men. He’d stopped them from hurting her that night, and in the
morning they’d walked along the boardwalk and he took her for
coffee. She told him that of course she would marry him. She
loved him, she’d said. He made her feel safe.
Safe. That was the word she used. Safe.
25
The third week of June was a series of glorious high summer
days. The temperature crept up over the course of the afternoon,