I felt better once I'd taken a shower and changed my clothes. I chose something I knew he'd like. I put on a rust colored wrap dress and fixed my hair so it was soft and waves fell around my face. I was starting to hate myself for the events earlier in the day. I knew he had been angry, but I couldn't figure out what had come over me. It must have been that those diaries stirred up old feelings of suffering. The terrible truths were there but they were ancient. None of it was happening at that moment, nor had there been any violence or threats in over fifteen years. There was infidelity but that came with being married to an artist. I was glad he would be home for dinner. I was glad to make it for him and fix things between us before he left in the morning. I fixed my hair and applied make up. It seemed foolish to fix myself up before I went into the kitchen and fried a steak, made potatoes au gratin, a salad – all the foods he loved. It was a masochistic circle just as my children always implied. They couldn't understand why I entertained his childish needs, why I sometimes acted more like a mother than a wife. It particularly bothered my sons which was a surprise to me. I always supposed the reason my daughter criticized me less was because she didn't feel trapped by the same expectations. She'd left home, gone to college, lived in Berkeley. Her choices were plentiful while mine had been singular. My eldest son, Charlie, particularly found it distasteful. That was ironic because his wife was like me and in that way, he was like his father. I'd explained many times that when I was growing up that was how it was. That was how men acted. That was what women did.

I went downstairs and into the kitchen. It was nearly four o'clock. As I walked into the front room, the phone rang. Instead of picking up on the extention near the couch I went into the kitchen and picked up. I was afraid it was jeff, still angry with me. Canceling.

"Hello?"

It was Kate Sanford, my son's future mother in law. My son Jeffery had just gotten engaged a few weeks before, over Christmas. I'd spoken with Charlotte's mother at least five times since then. She seemed more exited about the wedding arrangements than the kids. I found her annoying, a woman content to live a mediocre life. And, I thought, as a result became more childlike.

"Eve? It's Kate Sanford, Charlotte's mother." Her voice sounded less animated and enthusiastic.

"How are you Kate?"

"Are you in the middle of something." I looked up at the clock. I still had a couple of hours before Jeff got home. I was already dressed and ready. I would rather have gotten the call over with then have to call her back.

"No. Not at all. How are the wedding plans going—I want to tell you again that Mr. Lambert and I are more than willing to help out—help pay for it. It seems like it's getting ot be a big event and we want it to be special for the kids."

She was silent for a moment then I heard stifled sobs. 

 "Are you all right Kate? What's happened?" My mind always shot to the worst possible scenario. This time I imagined the kids driving back from Boston, sliding off the road. I imagined she was calling to say they had been injured or worse. I could hear the urgency in my own voice, "Kate. What's happened?"

"I guess Jeffery called it off."

That was how it always had been. Hearing bad news after expecting horrible news was a relief. It was a relief that my son broke off his engagement to a wonderful girl that he seemed to have been completely in love with.

"But why? What happened?"

"I don't know." She paused, "I don't know Eve. He called it off. Charlotte called me. She was hysterical. She said she hasn't eaten for days. She can't get any work done—you know she's in New York on an apprenticeship with a magazine—"

"Yes. I did know. Poor girl. I'm so sorry Kate. Is it just postponed?"

"I have no idea what he's thinking." I felt a certain defensiveness rise in me. I didn't like her increasing but subtle criticism of my son.

"I'm sure he had his reasons."

"Did he, Eve? He sprung it on her so suddenly just to break her heart."

"Well, that's not Jeffery's personality." It wasn't. I'd always felt he was the only one of my children who'd escaped some of the damage from our family. He was empathetic, kind and loving. He wasn't fickle or manipulative—he wasn't like his father. "I'm sure there's an explanation. These things do happen, Kate. They're young. I'm very sorry. Charlotte is a lovely girl."

"All right. I thought you should know. I honestly don't know—" She paused. "If they were to get back together, it will take me some time to forgive him."

The ember of anger fully ignited. "Well, Kate it's not something for you to forgive. And, honestly I don't like your insinuations. I've tried to be polite because I feel very sorry for Charlotte but I can't let you blame my son. They're both—"

"All right, Eve. I can see you're getting upset. I wanted to let you know. I don't want to get into this with you right now." At that she hung up.

After I hung up I still had a bitter taste in my mouth. In a way, as much as I liked Charlotte, I was glad I didn't have to be related to that woman. I thought I'd lose my mind with all her calls over wedding plans. Dresses to match the yellow roses. Country club or hotel? Guest list after guest list. She even mailed me fabric samples for Charlotte's dress. And this call, her tone about my son. Still, I realized I should call Jeffery and find out what was happening. Until Christmas he and I talked on the phone at least twice a week, mostly I'd call him and he'd tell me about his writing or about life in his little cottage on Cape Cod. But, things went bad towards the end of his visit. The same old business. Jeff's affairs, my problems with Clara. I knew I'd disappointed Jeffery. He had brought Charlotte with him, had asked her to marry him while he was visiting. Then, I ruined everything; I completely exploded Christmas afternoon. He and Charlie left early, went and stayed in a hotel. I decided that he was an adult and it wasn't fair to him to have me calling him so often. It was sad for me that he didn't make the move and call me, but I knew my intuitions were right. He was the child I was closet to, despite loving them all desperately, but I depended on him too much. This time I had a reason to call.

I lit a cigarette and dialed his number. It would be about 5:00 there on the Cape. The phone rang a few times and he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Jeffery, It's mom."

"How are you?"

"Sweet heart, I'm doing well but I heard from Charlotte's mother. That's why I'm calling."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry you broke up."

"It's all right."

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to make to make him uncomfortable and I couldn't think of the right words to say. Really I wanted to know why he'd called it off. I took a drag from my cigarette and waited.

Finally he said something. "Why did she call you?"

"Well she had been asking me to help with the arrangements." I realized her sentiment was still stuck in my head and I didn't want to let on to Jeffery that she blamed him and was angry with him so instead I kept rambling. "You and I hadn't talked and she didn't know a date. I guess Charlotte told her it was going to be early summer. I suggested she call me in the spring but she started up with planning right away."

"Mom why are you giving me all this information?"

"I guess it's a round about way of saying I didn't like Charlotte's mother very much."

"Well you did a good job. I didn't get that impression at all. In fact, I had no idea what you were saying."

"Ok well—" I took another drag and blew it out "So she called me just now and said you two broke up. That's why I'm calling you."

"We did break up."

"Did you break up with her?"

"I did. I feel very sad about it."

"Did something happen between the two of you? Was it the distance?"

"I don't know."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"I just didn't want to marry the first girl I fell in love with."

"Oh." I waited but he offered nothing more.

He let out a deep breath. "It seemed capricious."

"I don't know. There's something to be said for marrying the person you're in love with."

"You did." he said.

"That's probably why you don't want to. That's all right to feel that way. I can't say I blame you, daddy and I haven't set a very good example."

"I didn't say I felt that way."

"I don't want to argue with you sweetheart. I trust your decision and your feelings about it. I agree that you're young and you need to be sure. Honestly I do."

More silence. Then, "Mom I'm sorry I haven't called since Christmas."

"It's all right. We both were busy. Besides, after seeing you and Charlotte I realized that I depend on you too much. I called you too often. You have your own life."

"I don't see it that way. You can call me any time."

"It's suffocating for a grown child."

"I like our conversations mom. I sit in my little office here in the cottage, look out over the ocean and talk to my mother about my life. It's pretty damn nice."

"That's sweet, darling."

"You're one of my favorite people."

"That's sweet."

"How's dad?"

"He's leaving tomorrow for California."

"Clara mentioned that to me."

"Yes. That's about it. Otherwise things are the same."

"Are things better than they were at Christmas?

"Of course."

"Charlie said you called Peggy. That something was wrong."

I felt my heart sink. When I had called Charlie I felt I was in danger. I thought Jeff was going to hurt me. It made me anxious to consider how my imagination had run away with itself. It seemed completely implausible now that anything was wrong at all.

"I'm having a little trouble," I confided in him. Again the fear rose up in me, it was inside of me. It wasn't Jeff. It was me. The part of me that had never fused, that lay dormant. It was such a gulf of pain that immediately I wished for a permanent end. Just letting the idea of this darkness pass over me caused fatalistic urges.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Sweetheart, you have your own problems—"

"He said dad was threatening to hurt you."

"No. Dad wasn't."

"Why would you call Peggy and say that if it weren't true?"

There are some things you can't tell your children. It's part of a box of secrets that are kept hidden. It is to protect them. I certainly wasn't going to tell my son about the diaries or his real mother's claims about Jeff. I wasn't going to describe the abuses Jeff inflicted on the women in his life. Past and present.

"Honestly I'm fine. I have to go sweetheart. I'm making dinner for daddy."

"I love you mom." He said. "You can call me too if you need help—you don't have to always call  Charlie. I can help you too. If something's wrong, come here. There's room and I think you would really love it here. Even to get some space to clear your head."

"I know the Cape is beautiful. Dad and I took you as children. I know." I let out a breath. "Well, I love you sweetheart—I'm fine."

"Mom. Don't feel like you shouldn't call. I love hearing from you."

Jeff didn't come home for dinner. I waited until 8:00 and then threw the whole thing in the garbage. I washed the dishes and fixed up the kitchen. Other than the faint smell of cooked steak, it appeared that I hadn't made anything at all. I fixed some buttered toast and a cup of tea. I brought it into the bedroom. I took off my shoes and turned on the television. The Bob Newhart was on. The buttery toast felt comforting; it must have reminded me of a safe time when I was a child before my mother died. I started to cry. Would my life be like the characters on TV if I hadn't lost everything over and over? Everyone I knew had mothers who took them in when they had marital problems. I longed for someone who loved me, knew me as a daughter. I wiped my eyes. I was old, that shouldn't have mattered any more. 

I studied Bob Newhart. You would have thought a psychologist would be interesting not dry and tedious. Had I ever wanted a man like that? Would that have been my life if I'd never met Jeff? I took another bite of toast and chewed it slowly. Bob Newhart was funny but ordinary. I picked up my tea cup and blew on it. I took another sip. I closed my eyes for a moment and swallowed down the warm tea. For some reason the idea of a man like Bob Newhart touching me crossed my mind. It caused a feeling of a strange dread. I stretched my legs and thought of Jeff's desire for me, the way he studied my body. The way he touched me. I knew that most couples weren't as intimate as Jeff and I were. They didn't make love as often. My friends rarely made love with their spouses. They'd settled into loving companionship, more close friends. I wouldn't say that described Jeff and me. At some point I realized I couldn't tell people we made love several times a week. And, Jeff and I were friends too. We had a history together but really he had never completely been a member of the family. He had never pretended to have any interested in domesticity He wanted his art. He wanted me. And he wanted his lifestyle. I watched Bob Newhart's confused, sarcastic expression. I studied his long cardigan sweater and the gentleness about his manner. There was nothing about that sort of life that interested me.

I clicked the button on the remote. Six Million dollar man was on. I smiled. Fast paced action music was playing as a car sped down the road. A convertible. There he went running down an embankment faster than any man could possible move. Of course he was bionic. He too was different from Jeff. Handsome in a different way. He jumped up high over a tall barbed wire fence. His shirt unbuttoned so you could just make out his chest. He was running past a cement building and stopped before a white-hot bomb about to blow. He manages to toss the bomb into a reservoir. The camera moves in, close up. Lee Majors. 

I finished my toast and turned off the television. I looked at the clock on Jeff's bedside table. It was 10:00. I considered packing his suitcase. Why should I, I thought? Instead I brought the plate and tea cup back into the kitchen. I washed them both and before I went back upstairs I looked out the window. Little flurries were starting up. I wondered if we'd get another storm. I hoped not. I was ready to get back to work on Monday. Tomorrow was Sunday. Jeff would be gone for a few days. I could get my head together. I looked back at the table. My heart dropped thinking of him standing me up. I couldn't help but let it drag me into a sadness and longing. My feelings were so hurt and I knew our path together was slippery and narrow. There were too many obstacles to navigate it. I could see that I'd always held his hand wanting protection. I was leaning on him to make it through never seeing that it was his path, it was our lives together. Otherwise, it would have been like Bob Newhart, just life without those sorts of complications.

I didn't even put my nightgown on. I slid under the covers in my wrap dress. I felt terrible. What I'd said to Jeffery was true. I was the one with the problems. It was me. The time when Jeff abused me had long since passed. So had the horrible experiences at the hospital. They'd passed for everyone else but they still resided within me. I was alone in the world. It didn't matter that I had Jeff or the children. It didn't matter that I had a job and friends. I was completely alone in my pain. Except for Margaret. Our pain was different but her loneliness touched me, even buried in gibberish I knew some of what she'd felt. I heard Jeff's car pull up to the house. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 12:00. I closed my eyes. He'd likely come in and wake me so I could reassure him I loved him.

 I waited but I didn't hear the thud of his car door closing. It wasn't his car. It was someone else navigating our street. A neighbor. I waited a few more minutes before I moved back under the covers in the dark room. I was restless and couldn't sleep.

Finally, I opened my eyes and sat up. There it was again. A fluctuation. I'd thought I had come to some realization about the trade offs with Jeff. I thought I was calm, sad but calm. Then a bolt of anger shot through me. It was instantaneous. I realized I should read the journal right then and there. He wasn't going to be home. I could hide it and he wouldn't know where to look. I could find out what I needed to know.

There was something to know.

I walked down into the darkened house. The kitchen light was on and it gave me the sense that someone was home. When the kids were in high school, there were many nights such as that one. I'd come down to check the doors or make sure they'd all come home by curfew. The kitchen light would be on then too. I'd peek in and the three of them would be there, talking. I remembered feeling glad for them. I wasn't sure what about the three of them there, becoming young adults had made me sentimental. Maybe it was that back then I'd recognized that was the end of their childhood. I realized my life with them would be changed. I wished I could go back in time and when I walked into the kitchen my children would still be there. I would still be with Matt and Jeff married to Anna. Things should never have veered off that path. I walked into the empty kitchen. I never liked the reflection in black windows at night time, but I felt particularly spooked by it. The empty kitchen with my own movement in my peripherie caused subtle shocks. I retrieved my car keys from the dish on the counter. I walked to the back door that led to the driveway. I slipped on my snow boots and shuffled my way to the car. The ground was icier than I would have expected. My mind flashed on Jeff driving hom. Guilt descended again. I unlocked the door and knelt down in the dark feeling around for the journal. It was easy enoguht to find and retrieve. I looked up towards the road before I decided to follow-through and bring it back into the hosue.

When I got back into the house I fixed myself a scotch and carried the journal up to our room. I opened the page randomly and started reading.

--I've lost track of the numbers and my system for keeping track of the days in this diary. Suffice it to say, another day has passed – you, my devoted witness, certainly you must have noticed that I didn't say "which" day, just another. There's no way to assemble all of this. For all you know I skipped pages and mixed up days and events so there is no—what you would call—episodic relevance—or maybe I made that up. But it sounds very scholarly. Philosophical--

There was a botanical sketch of an insect. I didn't recognize it as anything I'd ever seen before. It had a detailed thorax, the curvature of each portion shaded so it had an uncanny resemblance to drawings I'd seen in biology books when I was in high school. I put the book down and thought about it for a minute. I remembered that Jeff used to have antique scientific books, mostly physiology and biology. These looked very similar to some of the illustrations I remembered seeing. I examined the picture more closely. The wings appeared translucent and I realized that they were very lightly shaded so they appeared the color of moss. It was hardly noticeable and it was there. Everything about Margaret—from what I could infer—had a delicateness. She was a petite, thin woman. Even her words, as dark as they were, had a lightness. It was her intellect that came through. I suddenly felt very bad for her. I returned to the diary.

All right. I'll admit it---that's what I said to him. I told him I'll admit it, we're old gentlemen now. The two of us. I said I'm just like you. I'm a man. We are inanimate but we are men just the same.

(I can tell you what he says to that, he –maybe it was the first time indeed—his eyes turned gentle and he was trying to draw out some desire for him. From me? A crazy old gentleman. I'm not really a man but I don't feel the jealousy he craves so –I am a man! He couldn't understand and his voice grew tender. He thought I was hungry. He thought I was thirsty.

"You are pretty when you want to be." He whispered.

"How can you find a man pretty?"

"You know you're not a man, don't you silly girl?"

If I were really here. Present company excluded. If I were here today, yesterday, tomorrow I'll tell him the truth. No. As you'll find out in just a few words. I didn't tell him. But, you would wouldn't you? I bet you would. His hands are his eyes, they touch my neck. He lifts me to standing.

"You can be very pretty when you want to." He whispered. He put his lips on mine. I didn't have any words.

The next day he brought me a dress.

I sat for a short time running my finger over the smooth leather cover. It was an absent minded gesture. I let out a breath. I stared off at the wallpaper without thinking of anything at all. I let my mind rest there. I recognized that I needed someone to help me. That I was confused. But who would I call? I wouldn't ever got back to a hospital or even talk to a doctor. Not after what happened. I could maybe get some pills from my doctor. Maybe that would help. I decided I would call our family doctor tomorrow. I would tell him I wanted some sort of tranquilizer. Then I would be able to get back into my life. Things had been normal for a long time, I'd reassured myself. I scanned my memory for evidence of my sanity.

I was sane. The few time I'd had problems, they were justified: after my first husband died leaving me alone at such a young age; during and after the mental hospital—that would be expected after what they'd done to me; and really just now. I tried to understand why I was going crazy again.

I looked back down at the diary on my lap. I was almost surprised to see it. I flipped to another random page. This page was full of an illustration with only two short sentences in the center in that same dedicate cursive. Around it were drawings of roses in different stages of bloom. There was a sort of pattern to it and it was very lovely. It reminded me of a Victorian Valentines day card except the sketches were so detailed and beautiful. The words contradicted the beautiful aesthetic.

You have to protect yourself from him. He's going to kill you.

I let out a gasp. I closed the book. I looked back around the room. First an electric panic shot through me. Then, I froze and as I thawed those words wormed their way into my mind. I could see she was crazy, ridiculous and nothing was happening. I could see that. I knew it. At the same time, I felt frightened. I considered that maybe Jeff was going to have me sent away again. I started to cry and then I felt very dizzy and trance like. I tried to anchor myself in the plausibility of it. Could he be out getting the papers signed. Was he sitting somewhere waiting for a judge to order my commitment.

I was shaking. I wanted to call him, but I didn't want to at the same time.

I flipped back to the page. It was beautiful. It was her fear but not my own. I sat still for a moment, I realized that feel safer if I had a knife somewhere here in the room. Not because of Jeff, not really but I didn't know why it would make me feel safe. It was one of those shameful secrets, like a child would keep. It was more a compulsion.

I hated myself for thinking it, for wanting to do it. It was like when I used to write poetry, the image would come and sit there. It would nudge me and nudge me until I acted on it. I shook my head. I knew it was stupid. I even felt rational. Before I went back down to the kitchen, I opened the linen closet and wrapped the journal in a sheet. Then I placed it in the back, below the other bed linens. It was perfectly concealed.

I did what the journal had told me to do, believing that somehow Margaret's psychosis allowed her to see into the future, into my life. I went down stairs and opened the cutlery drawer. I could see my own reflection in the kitchen windows. I ignored the feeling it gave me. I picked up a medium sized knife and hid it in the fold of my skirt as I carried it up to the bedroom with me. I knew I wouldn't ever use it, but once the seed was planted by Margaret and since Jeff had called me crazy so many times that day, I'd feel better waiting for him if I knew I had at least some protection. When I got back to my room, I slid it between the mattress and box spring. I got back into bed. What I'd done tossed around in my mind and I mostly wanted to go back and put the knife away. But I didn't.

I fell asleep.

I woke when I heard the front door open and close. It was just moments before Jeff came into our room. I closed my eyes. He changed into his pajamas and went into the bathroom. I heard the water run as he brushed his teeth. I kept my eyes on the slit of yellow light under the bottom of the door. The bathroom door opened and the light went off. He slid into bed. I waited but he didn't try to rouse me.

After a few minutes I turned to him. "Do you hate me?" I whispered.

He looked serious. "No. You ask me that whenever we've had a fight. It's childish."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't hate you."

I touched his face. "I never ask you." I said. "I always wait for you to ask me, but will you make love to me?"

"You ask me sometimes," He whispered and moved closer to me.

"No I don't. I ask you to kiss me. I tell you I want you."

He smoothed my hair away from my face and kissed my lips.

"Why didn't you come home for dinner? You said you would."

"I was angry with you." He kissed me again.

"Oh." I said and I started to cry. "I'm so sad."

He pulled the covers down and looked at my dress. "You still have your clothes on?"

"I fell asleep."

"Did you dress up for me?"

I nodded.

He touched my shoulder, ran his hand over the soft fabric of my dress. "It's pretty." He kissed my neck, moved his hand down and loosened the sash. He removed his clothes. He made love to me and it was the same for me as it always was. It was the only time I felt safe. It was the only time I felt like I belonged somewhere. I started to cry.

"Eve. I don't know why you're so unhappy."

Things were melting again. My experiences were liquid. I was returning to the hospital. With his warm body next to me, I imagined him there with me. Saving me. It would have been all right if he had been with me.

"I wished you had helped me, gotten me out of the hospital."

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me a moment. "You were with someone else. He came and got you. And your friends. The people you lived with. They helped you."

"But, you just left me there. Would you have come back?"

He kissed my lips. "Shhh...It's all right," he whispered. When he pulled away, he said, "Eve. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings tonight." He touched my hair, smoothed it back away from my face. "Eve. If you can't forgive me for what I've done to you then maybe we should end things."

I nodded slowly but didn't say anything.
"Is that it? You can't forgive me?"

"You've never been sorry. You've never told me the truth."

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

"I'm not a good person." He said. "You've known me most of my life. You know I'm selfish. And, you've read it yourself in her diaries. I don't know how far you've gotten or how much you know or even what she may have written." He shook his head slightly. "And what I did to you. I knew back then, before you were taken to the hospital that you were never going to be with me again. You'd left me for someone else. For another life. If not for the hospital we wouldn't be together."

"You were married back then."

"Eve." He shook his head. "You know that we were meant to be together. You know it's... it was beyond our control. We've always been condemned by something that doesn't translate into rational explanations." He looked intently at me. "It's not something to say aloud probably, but I feel as if I possess you; as if you're mine. So those events were necessary."

"I don't –"

He kissed my lips. "Just listen to me. I know it isn't right to say but it isn't possible for me to lose you. From the minute I laid eyes on you, it's been unthinkable for you to be with someone else."

I let out a breath. The room was so still and quiet as was the house. Ordinarily the wind caused the windows to rattle or something in walls would settle. There were creaks and murmurs but not then. "It does sound crazy. To say you possess me. Do you think you own me?"

"That's not what I said."

"What's the difference?"

He shrugged. "That's how love is sometimes. When you let it go where it wants to go. It's like poetry. Something beyond us. You believe that, don't you?" He moved on top of me again and kissed me.

I laughed "what are you doing?" I knew he wasn't going to make love to me again. I laughed again but when I looked at him, he'd turned was serious. He kissed me again but it seemed aggressive. He was pressing his weight on me, I felt I was going to suffocate.

I thought of the knife, right there under the mattress. "What are you doing?"

"You've always been in love with me, haven't you?"

"Yes." I whispered. "You know I have." I let out a deep breath. I wasn't sure if he was joking and maybe he didn't know that he was making me uncomfortable. "Please move off of me. I don't like it."

"But Eve I know I can't trust you. You know how I feel and you lie to me but you always do." He tried to kiss me again but I turned away.

"Please," I said as I turned towards him.

He fixed his gaze on me. His arms holding me near the shoulders. "Eve tell me where you've put Margaret's diaries. I'm not leaving them here with you while I'm gone. You're becoming completely insane."

It made me shudder. This sudden change in him. Or was I imagining it? My mind flashed on the knife again and then it scared me—the possibility.

"Get off me." I was firm. "Now."

"No. Just tell me where you've put them. They're ruining our marriage. I've asked you already several times. You're going crazy over this."

I pushed hard and he seemed to wake up from a trance. He moved over.

"You're a Goddamned psychopath." I said. "Jesus." I got up and went into the bathroom. I splashed water on my face. I looked at my body still naked, there were faint red marks on my arm where he'd pressed against me. I put on my robe and opened the door. "For Christ sake read the Goddamned things with me. Tell me what happened!"

He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. "I don't understand you. Why do you have to make a mess of things?"

"Because I want to know the truth. Because everything you say is a Goddamned lie."

He rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to sleep. I have to get up early. But I'm telling you to get rid of the thing. Do you hear me?"

When I climbed into bed he turned over and grabbed my arm. Held it tight.

"What are you doing?" I was more angry than frightened. A part of me wanted to retrieve the knife and frighten him with it. Of course I didn't but I knew that Margaret was right about having it there. Not so much for self-defense but for self-determination.

Jeff was staring at me intently. "You know as well as I do that we've always been insanely passionate for one another. For you to take parts of that diary and curate it into a something ugly—it's just as criminal as anything you claim I've done to you. Do believe a dead woman?" I tried to pull my arm away but he held it. "Do you, Eve?"

"No." I whispered. I looked at him. "But you're protesting too much."