"He walked in the front door and scared all of us. I was giving Bryce a bath and the baby was asleep. He was drunk and carrying on about how he'd heard what a whore I'd been. He said he bet Eliana isn't even his."
I look down at the baby girl in my arms. "I'm sorry, Sara. I tried to get here."
Tears roll down her cheeks. "What am I going to do? I don't have a job. We have no money saved. None. We're two months behind on our mortgage."
"You'll get a job, Sara. You have a degree."
She makes a disbelieving sound. "I can't imagine the demand for a psychologist is very strong. This town doesn't produce the kind of men who would use my services."
"Then you'll have an all-female clientele."
"Yeah, and I'll become public enemy number one because all the wives are enlightened and in touch with their feelings." Her laugh is hollow as she wipes her face and looks down at the surrounding houses. Every single house has a light on, and people outside. "I can't imagine what they're going to say about me now. This'll be the juiciest gossip to ever be whispered."
"I wonder which one of them called," I murmur, my gaze running over each home.
Sara sniffles and shakes her head. "That's what I can't figure out. There wasn't any yelling. Any arguing. I was terrified because I knew it was coming, and I called you."
Immediately I know it was Jo.
"Can I see Mickey Schultz?"
The front desk sergeant is bleary-eyed, steam rises from a fresh cup of coffee on his desk. Maybe in a big city he'd tell me no, but this is a small town, and the rules are sometimes pliable.
He leads me back to the holding cells. There are three, and Mickey is in the last one. He sits on a metal bench, his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands. He doesn't look up at the sound of our approach.
"You have fifteen minutes," the officer grunts, glancing at Mickey before he leaves.
Mickey raised his head as soon as the officer spoke, and now he watches him leave. When he's out of earshot, Mickey says two words. "Fuck you."
He leans back against the painted brick and crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Fuck you," he says again, this time with more of an edge to his voice.
"It isn't true. What you've heard is wrong."
Mickey leans forward suddenly. "You're not fucking my wife while I'm gone earning the money that pays for our home and puts food on the table?" He stands as he talks, walking closer to the bars.
I stand still and look him in his eyes. "No."
"Then why did I hear your truck is leaving marks in my yard when I'm not there?"
"People don't know shit in this town, Mickey. They see my truck at your house and make an assumption, because they'd never think I'm there to intercept you or clean up after you."
"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"Do you ever look in the mirror and see what you've become? Do you really see yourself?"
Right now he looks like shit. Red, swollen eyes, his hair sticking up in places. An angry scratch stretches jaggedly down the side of his neck. But these physical characteristics aren't what I'm referring to. I want to know if he sees his heart, his soul.
"I'm a man trying to keep his family together. And now that's ruined. The police are going to press charges, and my family is fucked."
"I'm waiting for you to show some remorse, but it doesn't seem like I should hold my breath. You were hurting Sara. Yourwife. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"It was just a few times, and they were more like accidents. I didn't mean it. I'd had too much to drink, and—"
"Bullshit. That's weak. You know how liquor makes you act, and you drank it anyway. Over and over and over. You came home hammered, and you hurt your wife. Scared your kids. You created this situation." I gesture around the place. "This is your doing. And I'm to blame too. I enabled you. Every time I showed up and let you use me as a punching bag instead of your wife. Every time I came over and distracted you until you sobered up. All because Sara thought you'd change back to the guy she first married. Because I felt like I owed you. You saved my life once, and I thought I was saving yours. But now I see there's some shit you can't come back from. You did this. You put yourself here. This"—I swirl my finger above my head—"is on you."
I turn to leave, but his voice calls me back. "You'd be dead if it wasn't for me."
"That doesn't mean I have to clean up your mess every time you make one."
