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Dinah

I know as soon as I open my eyes where I am.

The scent of Melonie is still on the sheets, her stench wrapped around me, strands of her hair still on the pillow.

I try to shove off the mattress but can’t.

My wrists are strapped to the bed’s rails, my ankles in the same constraints.

I lift my head; at least that’s free. I whip my head to one side, then the other, trying to see if he is here.

It’s hard to see anything in the dark, and it takes a moment for the room to come into focus.

The shackles hanging off their mounts in the wall.

The table in one corner. The chair by the door, empty. Where is he?

Maybe he’s in with her. Panic wells, and I thrash against the bed and scream his name as loudly as I can. He cannot talk to her. Not about me.

You know my mom. Reese Bishop.

What had her mom said about me? Why hadn’t I asked her?

Because she was about to die. Dead women tell no tales. If Joe had just been five minutes later. If I had been five minutes earlier. How long was he standing behind me, listening? When did he leave the house? Was he even asleep when I snuck out?

Too many questions, and they spin through my mind, making me dizzy.

Or maybe not—maybe it’s the drug. I’ve seen a lot of patients coming off pento, and I’ve always dismissed their complaints, their pleas for water and an Advil.

Now I understand the problem. My headache is blinding, and I sob, then scream his name again, wincing at the bolt of pain that rockets between my temples as a result.

My mouth is leathery and dry, and my stomach twists in a threat to vomit.

Joe won’t keep me in here. He can’t. I am not one of his patients. Natalie is expecting me to meet with the union rep today. Don’t be late, Dinah. If I don’t show up, he’ll call her. She’ll ... what? Will she suspect something is wrong?

Probably, but her suspicion certainly won’t be that I’m locked in my husband’s mental institution.

It doesn’t matter, because he’s not going to keep me here.

Any second, he will open the door and let me out.

He probably just wanted a moment to make sure that Jessica is okay and I have a chance to calm down.

We will talk, and this time, I will say the right thing.

I can do that. No one knows him better in the world.

I have spent almost a decade playing him like a piano.

This is just a new song, one I need to learn. It can be done.

I look down and flap my fingers in the air, trying to see my hand, but the angle is too steep.

It doesn’t matter. I can feel the IV tape pulling at my skin, the dull pain of the needle.

The fact that he IV’ed me is not a good sign.

That portal can be used for anything. Nourishment. Liquids. Drugs. Poison.

I stare at the door and will it to open.

Any minute. We will talk, and then we will leave here and go back to the house, and everything will move closer back to our norm. He just needs a moment to check on her and for me to calm down. That’s all this is.

I try not to think about the fact that I am tied up, a development that is not necessary and doesn’t fit well into my expectation that he and I are about to leave here hand in hand.

It doesn’t matter. He will untie me and remove the IV.

He will.