I thought the pounding was in my head. Wine, followed by tears, followed by more wine will do that to a girl, every time. But the noise becomes so intrusive that it has to be outside myself.

Between the blotches of snow caked to the window, there are hints that a dreary dawn has arrived. But just barely.

I roll in the direction of my alarm clock. 6:30 a.m.

Bang, bang, bang. 

I sigh and sit up too fast. I block my dry heave with the crook of my elbow.

My housecoat. More than a comfort. A necessity. I'm still wearing my old wedding lingerie.

He said I look divine...

When I pass the mirror, I cringe and wipe smeared lipstick off the corners of my mouth. Rose red. It matched the flowers. It isn't my color, but, then again, I wasn't myself yesterday.

I'm not sure whom I expect at the door. Sam maybe, my maybe still husband? Or Sebastian?

But no. I notice the squad car parked next to a snow bank before the man. The "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am" finally brings the person standing on the porch to my attention.

He flashes a police badge. "Gwyneth Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes, that's me."  

"I'm Detective Mariano." He has tired eyes, a rich brown. They make me hate him less. I'm almost convinced he isn't like all the other assholes in my life. "Do you mind if I come in? I'd like to ask you a couple of questions."

I have nothing to hide, criminally speaking that is, and at some point the night before, I declared a loyalty to no one but myself. "Sure. Come on in. I'll make a pot of coffee."

"I wish I could stay for some, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Thank you for offering."

"Please, call me Gwyn." He glances at my couch. I nod and gesture to it. He gives me a polite smile and takes a seat, pulling out his laptop, all at the same time as if he means not to waste a single moment. It's clear that I'm not the first interview of his day. And I probably won't be the last. "Rough night?"

"Yeah," he says while typing. "And that's why I'm here." He pulls out four photographs from his case and lines them up on my coffee table. One is a mug shot of a blonde with a vacant stare. The three others are candid shots of well-dressed people at parties. Despite the sunglasses and varying hairstyles, it's obvious the same woman appears in each picture. She has distinctive lips and high cheekbones. Perhaps she could have been a model in her prime if she hadn't been disproportionately top-heavy. She had nice full breasts, but the shoulders–they could have been her downfall. "Do you know this woman?"

I lift the mugshot and give it my all. "No." I shake my head and set it back down. "Is there a reason I should?"

"Do you have any idea where your husband is?"   

"Sorry, no again. I haven't seen or heard from him since yesterday morning."

"Is that unusual?"

He looks up from the screen and into my eyes in time to see a few tears spill out. I shrug and look away. "Yes and no." His scrutiny feels invasive, especially after years of feeling invisible. "I did kick him out of my house...again, and I hoped it would be the last time. I did reconsider, though. I texted him and invited him back so we could talk it through."

"And when was that?"

"There were two texts, actually. The first text was around eleven and the second, I would say about four thirty-ish. Hold on. I can confirm that..." I retrieve my cell phone and show him the two unanswered texts. "See? I was pretty close. 10:49 and 4:53."

He must have memorized every word and number because his fingers go wild on his laptop for a long time.

"I hate to interrupt, but is Sam in some kind of trouble? Detective...?"

"Fred Mariano." When he's done typing, he leans back and crosses his hands in front of his lips. "To answer your question, we're not sure. But we do know this woman is extremely dangerous. And your husband was the last person seen with her. At the Silver Knight Motel. No one has seen or heard from him since."

"Sam can take care of himself," I feel inclined to mention.

"And what makes you say that? Witnesses from the auction say he sells antique furniture. That doesn't sound like a tough-guy business to me."

He's already moving on to Sam's "business" and I'm still stuck on Sam–what we once were and what we've become. Having it confirmed for me that he was with another woman hardens my guilt into bitterness. For what I did, maybe I deserve that slap in the face, but Sam deserves so much more, for his secrets, lies, and utter soullessness. If he's involved with this woman, there are only two reasons why–sex and money, his only driving forces. "Were they...?"

"Intimate?" Fred guesses correctly with a word more appropriate than the one I'm thinking. He's good at his job. I have to give him that. And it's clear my earlier statement isn't sitting right with him. His posture has become stiff, his sleepy eyes are now steely and alert. "Yes. There was no sign that a crime had taken place in their hotel room, although..."

He must see in my expression a reason not to continue, at least not with the sordid details. But I can fill in the blanks. Sam was never very good at holding back. So there could have been sheets coiled in knots, tilted lampshades, blood-tinged bodily fluids...   

"Has he cheated on you before?"

"Not that I'm aware, but I wouldn't put it past him."

"Not exactly a choirboy, then?"

The question makes me emit a brief laugh that shifts into a weepy sniffle. I'm such a mess. Maybe the detective doesn't notice the full extent of it because there's another knock on the door.

Fred shoots to his feet and pulls aside the front window curtain. "It's my partner. I told him to stay on the radio, unless..."

He makes his way to the door. "Sarge, we might have a body." The words aren't meant for my ears, but the rookie is overeager, like he's never seen a dead person on the job before.

"I'll be right out." Fred returns to collect his things. "I'm sorry. I have to go. Do you mind if come back later?"

"I'll be here, whenever." There are two feet of snow on the ground and I have absolutely no plans for the weekend.

"And before I leave, I should warn you. If any reporters stop by, don't talk to them under any circumstances. They're vultures right now."

"Why?"         

"The woman I showed you, in the States they call her Bridezilla. In the Vancouver area, the Bride of Frankenstein. South America, La Horca. It means noose. I used to call her Goldilocks. She's a serial killer. Her victims? Rich men. They usually die by asphyxiation on the eve of their wedding or just after, their bank accounts emptied. Most often, the bodies never turn up, but when they do, the corpses are dressed in tuxedos and taped inside garment bags. The really bad news is that she's originally from this area, and so are her first victims, and now she's back and getting sloppy and desperate. By all means, look her up. There's plenty of reading material on the Internet. And could you do me a favor and think about all this for me?" He hands me his card. Sergeant Alfredo Mariano, Toronto Police Department, Homicide Unit. "Call me if you think of anything that might help us catch her. Wealthy suckers all over the world will bed and wed gold-diggers with fewer worries, and would have you to thank."

"Great." I give his attempt at humor a half-hearted smile. "I'll do my best."

"Thank you." The door is open. He's about to step into the lingering flurries when suddenly he takes a step back into the foyer. "One last thing. Can I ask you a personal question?"

I shrug, then nod. 

"What made you decide to take your husband back?"    

I should decline to answer. It's none of his business and not relevant to the investigation. I could make something up or give him a vague "I changed my mind," a partial truth. But the whole truth, the succinct version anyway, is what I decide to tell him. "I was in love with someone else. But..."

He measures me with his expressive eyes drawn together. Then they shift back to neutral and he nods with what appears to be sympathy and understanding. But maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

"I know it doesn't feel like it now, but I'm sure you're better off without him. And the other guy, too."

It's a nice thing for him to say. But then he leaves and doesn't look back. No man ever does.