Chapter 5: The House

I went home at six, when Clark's calendar said he was in a client dinner until nine.

Bea came with me, with her big canvas tote over one arm.

"I'm your witness," she said in the car. "And your muscle. Don't tell me which one is more useful."

The townhouse stood on its quiet Cobble Hill street with the lamps lit.

My key turned in the lock.

The alarm beeped.

The code had been changed.

"Meredith?" a voice called from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

Bree came into the hall barefoot.

She wore my robe, the green one Clark gave me for our fifth anniversary, tied at her waist.

She had a mug in her hand, my mug.

"I didn't think you'd come tonight," she said softly. "Clark told me not to open the door."

"Then why are you in my house?"

"Because he's scared. Because he needed someone." Her eyes filled right on schedule. "I never wanted you hurt, Mer. I swear on my life."

The couple from next door had stopped on the stoop with their groceries.

They had heard her through the open door.

Bree had left it open on purpose.

I saw it, and I saw what she wanted them to see: the cold wife shouting at the weeping friend.

I did not shout.

"Take off my robe," I said.

"What?"

"It's mine. Take it off, or I call the police and tell them there's a trespasser wearing my clothes."

Bea put down her tote.

"Get her a towel, someone," Bea said loudly. "The poor thing's in a stranger's robe."

The woman on the stoop made a small noise.

Bree's face went pink.

She untied it with stiff fingers, and under it she wore one of Clark's undershirts and nothing else.

"Fine," she said.

She dropped the robe on the floor and stood there in front of the open door and the neighbors.

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