I pack up the toolbox.Wipe down the counter.Leave everything the way I found it except better—that’s the job, that’s always the job, leave it better than you found it and don’t look back.
She walks me to the door.“Thanks for this, Luke.Thanks for everything.”
I nod.Walk to the truck.Don’t look back.
Halfway down the driveway I glance in the rearview.She’s standing in the doorway watching me leave.Arms crossed.Coffee in one hand.Not smiling.Just watching.
I turn onto the county road and drive.
The radio’s still on static.I leave it.
Emily would have liked the faucet.
That’s the last thought I let myself have before I stop thinking altogether.
46
Marin
We watch another movie the following evening.His choice again.This time it’sWhen Harry Met Sally, which I didn’t even know was on Netflix, until he mentioned it.How sweet, him picking a romantic comedy like he’s finally assembling a syllabus on how to be a decent boyfriend.
The basement is not ideal for movie nights.I’m aware.But I bring the laptop downstairs and set it on an overturned crate and angle the screen so we can both see it.I sit next to him, thighs touching.Leave the door open.
He asks if he’s going to get lucky, I tell him he might.
Sex is the one thing we’ve always been good at.No matter what, which I can see now was part of the problem.
We’re twenty minutes in when the doorbell rings.During the fake orgasm scene.Because of course it does.
Then two knocks.Polite.Hesitant.Not Mrs.Mather’s usual assault.
I pause the movie.Charles looks at me.
“Stay quiet,” I say, already reaching for the drawer where I keep the taser and the gag.
“You don’t have to?—”
I hold the taser so he can see it.“Open.”
He opens his mouth.The ball gag goes in—black silicone, adjustable strap, purchased from the same store where I bought the cuffs.I’d say it was the second most interesting purchase of my life but the bar moved a long time ago.His eyes say everything his mouth can’t.
Then I think about it.Whoever’s at the door, I need to deal with it fast.I hope it’s Mrs.Mather with food because I really don’t feel like cooking and she’s a four-minute conversation if I’m lucky.But Charles is gagged, not silent—he could kick the column, bang his feet on the concrete, make noise that a gag and soundproofing might not fully cover.
I move the laptop, leave it on the stairs, out of reach, and unpause the movie.Turn the volume up.Way up.
His eyes narrow above the gag.I close the basement door and head for the front of the house.
Through the front window I can see Mrs.Mather on the porch.She’s not alone.There’s a woman next to her—mid-sixties, silver-framed glasses, a canvas bag with a cross stitched on the front.She’s holding a Bible the way some people hold briefcases.Like it’s full of answers and she’s just waiting to be asked.
I open the door.Smile on.Always on.
“Marin, dear,” Mrs.Mather says.“This is Patricia Hollowell.She’s from First Baptist.She leads the healing ministry.”
Patricia extends her hand.Her grip is warm and certain and she looks at me with the compassion of a woman who has been praying about me without my permission.
“Helen told me about your husband,” Patricia says.“I hope you don’t mind us stopping by.We’ve been lifting Charles up in prayer every Wednesday and I just felt called to come in person.”
Called.She feltcalled.Like God picked up the phone and saidPatricia, go visit the man chained to a support column in the basement of a farmhouse at the end of a dead-end road.Bring a Bible.
