Chapter 1

The punch landed before the phone even reached my father's ear. I heard the sound of it through the speaker — a wet, dull thud that made me grip the marble counter with my free hand, my knuckles going white against the cold stone.

"Marla." My father's voice was a blade, sharp and breathless. "Marla, are you listening?"

I was standing in my kitchen, the evening light bleeding orange through the window to my left, the phone pressed against my cheek like a hot stone. I had been about to pour myself a glass of wine. The bottle was still open on the counter, the cork lying next to it, the glass empty.

"I'm listening," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

"He's here," Gerald said. "Down on Michigan, right outside that coffee shop you and I went to last month. The one with the blue awning."

"Who's —"

"Paul. Your husband. He's across the street, holding hands with some girl in a red jacket."

The words didn't make sense at first. They landed like foreign coins in my palm — strange, heavy, stamped with a face I didn't recognize. Paul. Holding hands. A girl in a red jacket.

"You're joking," I said.

"Do I sound like I'm joking?" My father's voice cracked on the last word. "I've been standing here for thirty seconds, watching them. She's young. Real young. Twenty-five, maybe. And they're holding hands like they're on a honeymoon, right there on the sidewalk, in front of God and everyone."

I heard something shift in the background of the call. Footsteps. A car horn. The distant hum of downtown traffic.

"Dad, listen to me. Whatever you think you saw —"

"I saw what I saw," he said. "And I'm not going to stand here and —"

There was a rustle. A scuffle. I heard my father say something I couldn't make out, his voice low and hard. Then the line went thick with movement, and I heard a voice — Paul's voice — cut through.

"Gerald. Gerald, wait. Stop."

"Stay out of my marriage," my father said.

The words hit me like a slap. I stood frozen in my kitchen, the phone shaking in my hand, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. The cork on the counter. The empty glass. The bottle of wine I hadn't poured yet.

"Dad," I said. "Dad, what are you doing?"

"Marla, I saw him." My father's voice was closer now, urgent. "I crossed the street. I'm standing right in front of him. And this girl — this girl is standing right there behind him, and she looks like she's about to cry."