“My husband, Sherlock Holmes.” She walked over to him, staring up into his stupid face. “What games are we going to play today? Do you have anything in mind? Or do you want me to take the lead? Go on. Tell me. What’s it going to be?”

“Are you on something?”

“Just some lovely expensive red wine, dear husband. Were you going to shout at me when you came in? You were wearing a very shouty face.”

“I think you should sit down–”

She lashed out, slapping her hand across his cheek. Her palm stung in some distant place and Scott stumbled back, slowly raising his hand to his face. “What the fuck?”

She surged forwards, hitting him again, laughing each time her palm made loud fleshy contact. This was it; this was new. She hadn’t hit him yet. She’d made him hurt himself, but she hadn’t taken it into her own hands. The thrumming was back, the pulsing, the heat.

“Cowardly fuck,” she grunted, shoving him in the chest.

He stumbled and fell against the door. There were tears in his eyes.

“What sort of a man are you?” she shouted, imagining what would happen if she’d ever hit her father like this. What would follow. And Scott did nothing, just stared. Weasel. Weak. Men were so pathetic. “Come on. Do something. Do something. Fucking hit me!”

She threw herself at him, raking her fingernails over his hands when he lifted them. Then he had his hands on her wrists. Oh yes, this was it, this was something. Suddenly the idea of getting bored, ever, seemed ludicrous.

She tossed her hair. “Go on. Take out all that anger. Do whatever you want. I give you permission. Go crazy, Scott.”

Darting her hand out, she squeezed onto his crotch, expecting to find him hard. Or at the very least almost hard. But he was soft, as feeble as the rest of him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“Liar.”

“I mean it. Please stop hitting me.”

“Begging like a little girl.” She was rubbing her hand up and down his crotch to no avail. “You can do anything you want. You can spit on me. You can fuck my ass until I bleed. Anything you want.”

“I don’t want any of that.” His voice was tremoring; he was so close to cracking. “I just want my life back.”

She let her hand drop away and stood on her tiptoes, staring into his shimmery eyes. “You are so, so sad.”

She punched him in the stomach.

He grunted and fell against the door. Casey spun away, heading for the stairs. She couldn’t even look at him. She needed her box, her special box. Maybe some shrooms to make this more interesting. Anything to keep the boredom at bay.

29

SCOTT

Scott took a sick day and drove down to Tess Foster’s house. The elderly lady had asked him not to visit during their conversation on the phone, but Scott felt himself getting closer to breaking point. He knew he was risking a lot, deceiving Casey like this – he hadn’t told her about the sickie – but he had to know if Casey had been Natalie’s lover.