“It is,” I simply said, and he often talked about my hands. “I think you have a fetish. As a profiler, that should concern you.”

He laughed, kissing knuckles, fingers, the way he often did. “Believe me, I have a fetish for more than your hands.”

“Benton.” I looked at him. “I am angry with you because you are ruining my life.”

He got very still, shocked.

I got up from the couch and began to pace. “I had my life set up just the way I wanted it,” I said as emotions rose to a crescendo. “I am building a new office. Yes, I’ve been smart with my money, made enough smart investments to afford this.” I swept my hand over my room. “My own house that I designed. For me, everything was in its proper place until you . . .”

“Was it?” He was watching me intensely, wounded anger in his voice. “You liked it better when I was married and we were always feeling rotten about it? When we were having an affair and lying to everyone?”

“Of course I didn’t like that better!” I exclaimed. “I just liked my life being mine.”

“Your problem is you’re afraid of commitment. That’s what this is about. How many times do I have to point that out? I think you should see someone. Really. Maybe Dr. Zenner. You’re friends. I know you trust her.”

“I’m not the one who needs a psychiatrist.” I regretted the words the instant I said them.

He angrily got up, as if ready to leave. It was not even nine o’clock.

“God. I’m too old and tired for this,” I muttered. “Benton, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. Please sit back down.”

He didn’t at first, but stood in front of sliding glass doors, his back to me.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Kay,” he said. “I don’t come around to see how badly I can fuck up your life, you know. I admire the hell out of everything you do. I just wish you’d let me in a little bit more.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.”

Blinking back tears, I sat down and stared up at the ceiling with its exposed beams and trowel marks visible on plaster. Wherever I looked there were details that had come from me. For a moment, I shut my eyes as tears rolled down my face. I did not wipe them away and Wesley knew when not to touch me. He knew when not to speak. He quietly sat beside me.

“I’m a middle-aged woman set in her ways,” I said as my voice shook. “I can’t help it. All I have is what I’ve built. No children. I can’t stand my only sister and she can’t stand me. My father was in bed dying my entire childhood, then gone when I was twelve. Mother’s impossible, and now she’s dying of emphysema. I can’t be what you want, the good wife. I don’t even know what the hell that is. I only know how to be Kay. And going to a psychiatrist isn’t going to change a goddamn thing.”