Chapter 3

Michael arranged the wake. He picked out the casket. He wrote the obituary. Alone.

Jessica finally emerged from her room the next afternoon.

"Michael, darling," she said, her voice thick with fake sleepiness. "I'm so sorry. That conference was brutal. I' m exhausted."

She was wearing a silk robe he' d never seen, her hair perfect, a faint, expensive perfume clinging to her. It was a stark, obscene contrast to the grief suffocating their home.

He just looked at her. Repulsion crawled up his throat.

"Leo is dead, Jessica," he said, his voice flat.

Her face crumpled, a performance of shock. "What? Oh my god, Michael! When? How?"

He didn't answer. He just watched her act.

She rushed to him, tried to embrace him. He stepped away.

"I have to make calls," he said, turning his back on her.

The funeral was small. Leo' s debate team, his teachers, a few neighbors. Michael stood by the grave, a cold wind whipping around him.

Jessica was there, dressed in expensive black, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She looked the part of the grieving mother.

He felt nothing when he looked at her. Just a vast, cold emptiness.

Later that day, back in the silent house, he found her in the kitchen, on the phone again.

He didn' t mean to overhear. He was just walking past.

"David, please, calm down," Jessica was saying, her voice low and urgent. "What do you mean Ryan was arrested? Shoplifting? Oh, for God' s sake."

A pause.

"Okay, okay, I' ll handle it. I' ll be there as soon as I can. Don' t worry."

She hung up and grabbed her purse and keys.

"Where are you going?" Michael asked. His voice was hoarse.

"It' s... it' s an emergency. With work," she stammered, not meeting his eyes. "A crisis."

"A crisis," he repeated.

She rushed out the door. He heard her SUV' s tires squeal as she pulled away.

He knew. He knew she wasn' t going to any work crisis.