Six more months have passed, and things have only gotten worse. I’m heartbroken over the distance that’s grown between us, with no idea how to fix it. Craig is different lately. Easy to anger. Distracted and even a touch erratic. I’ve asked myself whether he could be seeing someone else, and it breaks my heart to admit, but I just don’t know.
He swears that after his division completes the acquisition they’ve been working on for the past six weeks that everything will be better. But there was a campaign for a new corporate account before this and an internal audit before that. There’s always something demanding his attention. Something that isn’t me.
I’ve tried to be understanding. I’ve tried to convince him to quit his job or get counseling to help with the stress. I’ve tried so damn hard, but it’s been a year, and I’m sick of tear-soaked dinners in a silent apartment.
If I had years of good times to look back upon, I could use that as reassurance that we can get back to a better place. As it is, I’m worried that marriage with him doesn’t get better than this. I’m terrified that I’ve made a mistake. And as much as I hate to do it, I have to start considering my options.
Am I truly ready to consider divorce?
The universe must sense my reluctance to answer the question, though, because a knock on the door saves me. Security is good in our building—solicitors aren’t allowed up—which means unexpected visitors are few and far between.
I hurry to the door and take a look through the peephole. Two uniformed police officers stand in the hallway. I open the door and smile hesitantly. “Can I help you?”
The older of the two takes off his hat and peers at me through weary brown eyes. “Mrs. Kirkland?”
“Yes.”
“May we come in?”
“Why?” I don’t budge. While I have nothing to hide, I had it ingrained from a young age to nevereverlet the police inside my home.
His lips thin, and the other officer is avoiding eye contact entirely. “There’s been an incident. I’m afraid we have bad news.”
Tingles start in my scalp and trickle down my spine until my entire body is engulfed. And it’s not the good kind of tingles. My bloodstream is flooded with pure terror.
“What?” I ask on a winded breath.
“Today at approximately 4 p.m., we received a report that a man had been stabbed in East Harlem. When we arrived atthe scene, the victim was pronounced dead and taken to the hospital. After a preliminary search, the man has been identified as Craig Kirkland. I’m so very sorry.”
His words filter through a funnel before they reach my ears, making them sound distant and surreal.
A man was stabbed and pronounced dead.
Identified as Craig Kirkland.
“Not my Craig,” I say almost to myself. “He’s at work. He works late.”
The two officers exchange a pity-filled glance.
“I’m afraid so. Is there someone we can call to come be with you?”
Someone to call? I need to call Craig. I’ll call him, and he’ll tell them there’s been a misunderstanding. Yes, that’s what I need to do.
I walk away, leaving the door wide open, and get my phone. Craig’s number rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Five times.
Voicemail picks up.
I hang up, but refuse to concede that his not answering means anything. “He works all the time. I’m sure he’s just in a meeting,” I tell the two men who have migrated into the entry.
