Only this had been going on for years. The bruises. The split knuckles. The beatings. The screaming. Even the knife—all of Tucker’s movements had been dramatically telegraphed, and North had played his part like they’d rehearsed this scene a hundred times. Which they had, Shaw realized. They’d practiced and practiced and practiced.

Taking a deep breath to slow his pulse, Shaw studied the kitchen through the window. The worst of it was already over. Tucker had dropped the knife. He was leaning against the pantry door like it was the only thing in the world. He was sobbing. He was calling North’s name. He was begging.

What would happen if Shaw went in there? He had one vivid scene in his mind: the way the knife would slide into Tucker’s belly, the dense resistance of abdominal muscles before the greasy, smooth passage through the bowels. It was so cold tonight, and Shaw was shaking, could barely stand he was shaking so hard, but in his mind, in that vision, his hand was steady, and the knife went in like Shaw was dropping a quarter in a slot machine.

What would happen if Shaw went in there?

North would—

Shaw didn’t know what North would do. He had reached the edge of imagination. This part of North, this aspect, Shaw had never even considered. Never even let himself think possible. And to walk in there now, to call out North’s name, to force both of them to acknowledge that this . . . that this . . . that this shit was happening to North, it would be a violation. Because North hadn’t told Shaw. North had lied and lied and lied for years to cover this. There had been so many lies. The lies about boxing. But also the lies that North never had to say out loud. The lies when he talked about happy vacations with Tuck. The lies when he talked about birthday presents and spa weekends and trips to wineries. The lies about how supportive Tucker had been throughout the Marvin Hanson lawsuit. The lies, the fucking lies, when Shaw had stood here on this very porch on summer nights, a sweating Schlafly in one hand, and watched the two of them laugh and touch and orbit each other like some perfect fucking domestic galaxy. And to go in there now would be to rip away the lies and force all of them to confront the truth.

Shaw carefully backed down the three porch steps, turned around, and let himself out the back gate. He hobbled up the drive; he was shaking so badly that he had to brace himself on the house to keep from falling.

When he reached the Mercedes, he dialed 911 and reported sounds of violence at the address. And when the dispatcher tried to ask questions, he hung up. Then he put the car in gear and drove a whole block blind, fucking blind, and then he jerked the wheels up over the curb and killed the engine.