She was going to play her sick games. She was going to force him to have sex with her. She might even make him burn himself again, or worse.

He never knew what was waiting for him.

As he walked up the path, he thought about what he’d mentioned to Gary. He could get out of this situation any time he wanted. All he had to do was call her bluff: let her release the photos and the videos. No parent would ever want him around their kids again, but he’d still have fifty grand in savings; he’d still have a life worth living.

Wouldn’t he?

What if Casey never stopped?

Even if Scott moved away to start a new life, she’d find him. She’d show the videos to everybody. Even if people might pretend not to care, it changed a person, being publicly exposed like that. He’d always have it dangling over his head. He’d always feel different, separate from everybody else, dirty.

This was the argument he had with himself every time he walked up the path. Lately, he was starting to wonder if the truth was much simpler. He was scared. Not of the videos, not of the photos, not of the blackmail. He was scared of his wife.

The things she did, the things she made him do, she smiled, she laughed, she revelled in it. There was never any doubt or regret or moment of pause. After, she often stared at him like it was his fault the fun had stopped: like her toy was malfunctioning.

That was the look. The terror in it.

She was getting bored. She was going to escalate things.

Casey was waiting for him in the hall. Scott hated how beautiful she looked in her silk night-robe: one of half a dozen she now owned. He hated her hair, its messy sexiness, her flushed cheeks. He hated her full and tempting thighs. He hated himself for still finding her attractive, on a physical level, when he should’ve known better. When he did know better. It was only certain parts that forgot how evil she was.

She gestured to an object at her feet.

It was a large dog cage, the door open. She’d put Scott’s pillow in there. Casey had lovingly teased him when he bought it a few months ago; it was memory foam and was supposed to help with neck ache.

“You’re so silly,” she’d said, her voice airy, her voice hers: the Casey he’d known for over a year, the woman he kept expecting to snap back into existence any moment.

“I bought you a new bed, honey.” Now this Casey smiled. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”

You’re a pathetic bitch. You fucking mess. I’m going to hurt you. Badly. Both fists were clenched as he remembered old fights, as he remembered swinging his fists with his teeth gritted and adrenaline rushing into his head; it made him think of his father, and he suddenly envied him. That freedom to rage. It was a horrible thought.