After Brokeback Mountain, I used to pretend that Jason was gay, that’s why he wouldn’t touch me. It wasn’t me, I told myself He simply preferred men. But from time to time, I’d catch him watching me with a dark, hooded gleam in his eyes. Some part of him responded to me, I was certain of it Unfortunately, it was only enough to keep me, not enough to love me.

I closed my eyes as my husband crawled into bed. I feigned sleep.

Later, four-thirty, five A.M., I rolled over and touched my husband’s shoulder I spread my fingers upon the warm T-shirt covering his back. I felt the muscles ripple at contact, and I thought he owed me at least that much.

Then his fingers closed around my wrist He removed my hand from his shoulder

“Don’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Go to sleep, Sandy.”

“I want a second baby,” I said. Which was partly true. I did yearn for another child, or at least someone else who would love me.

“We could adopt,” he said.

“God, Jason. Do you hate me that much?”

He didn’t answer. I stormed out of bed, stomped downstairs, sat at the computer Then, just to be childish about things, I checked the empty recycle bin, and the three URLs left in the computer’s web history: New York Times, USA Today, and the Drudge Report.

At that moment, I despised my husband. I hated him for taking me away, but for never really saving me. I hated him for showing me respect, but for never letting me feel wanted. I hated him for his silences and for his secrets and for a lone black-and-white image of a terrified little boy who still haunted me.

“Just what kind of monster are you?” I demanded out loud. But the computer had no answers for me.

So I logged on to my AOL account. Then, working from memory, I wrote: Dear Wayne, thanks for meeting with me. I am working on our project now. I hope to see you again, at the next Thursday basketball game….

CHAPTER THIRTY

“What do you mean you can’t find the money? It’s four million dollars, for God’s sake. It takes a little more than a piggy bank to cart that much around.” D.D. was ranting into her cell phone, held tight against her ear. They were exiting the Jones residence and half a dozen photographers were snapping away at them. The class they should have at detective school and don’t: How to Always Have Photo-Ready Hair.

“No, I don’t want the Feds involved. We’ve traced money before; we can do it again…. Okay, okay, so it’s not a one-day project. I’ll give you two more hours….I know, so get cracking.”

D.D. flipped the phone shut, scowling.