Chapter 2

I heard my father say my name again — "Marla" — and this time his voice was different. It wasn't the hot, angry tone that had been there a minute ago. It was quieter. Careful. The voice of a man who had just watched something break and wasn't sure how to pick up the pieces.

"Dad," I said. "Put the phone on speaker."

"Marla —"

"Put it on speaker. I want to hear everything."

There was a click, and the sound of the street filled my kitchen. Traffic. Wind. The distant bark of a dog. And three voices, close together, all of them existing in the same small space on the other side of the line.

"Okay," my father said. "You're on speaker. Say your piece."

"Paul." I kept my voice flat. "I'm going to ask you one time. Who is Kira?"

"Nobody," he said. "She's nobody."

"That's funny," I said. "Because seven months is a long time to be nobody."

"I can explain."

"You've had eight years to learn how to explain things to me, Paul. Start now."

I heard him take a breath. On the sidewalk, three blocks away, my husband was standing in the aftermath of a punch, his hand presumably still pressed to his jaw, his mind racing for an explanation that would make this better.