Deadline

“Told you he’d cause mischief.”

She laughed. “Very perceptive.”

Gradually, their smiles receded and he brought them back to their conversation about Jeremy, which she was finding therapeutic. When had she actually talked to someone about this? Not to her father, whom she hadn’t wanted to burden with her unhappiness. Not to a friend. Not to anyone.

Perhaps it was easier to unload on a stranger whom one would never see again. Or maybe it was easy to talk to Dawson because he could relate to Jeremy’s condition. That was a reasonable assumption, but it was also a disturbing one. It bothered her to think that he could be as unstable as Jeremy had become.

She said, “I wish Jeremy had talked to me about what he was going through. If he had, things might have turned out differently.”

“You mean when he returned from the second tour?”

“Things went quickly from bad to worse. At first I thought he missed the corps, the camaraderie, that he was having trouble adjusting to civilian life. He claimed to like his new job, but he didn’t make friends with any coworkers. He became more withdrawn and antisocial.

“Tension at home mounted. There were two babies now. Jeremy was intolerant of Grant’s crying, Hunter’s chatter. He would pick fights with me over the slightest things.” She hesitated before adding, “He drank excessively. Sometimes to the point of passing out.”

Dawson gave her a wry look. “I’ve never passed out.”

“You shouldn’t let it get to that point.”

“I have no intention to.”

After a moment, she continued. “Jeremy would leave without telling me where he was going or how long he’d be gone, and he’d become enraged if I asked. He had trouble sleeping, and when he did, he had nightmares. He refused to talk about them.

“I begged him to get professional counseling. The suggestion always sparked an argument. His refusal to get help created more conflict. He got progressively short-tempered with me and the children. Hunter grew to be afraid of him, especially when Jeremy…”

He waited for a count of ten before he prodded her. “When Jeremy what?”

She looked down into her unfinished wine. “Became aggressive.”

“You mean violent.”

She raised her head and looked at him. “Please, Dawson,” she said, using his name for the first time. “I wouldn’t want anybody to know this. For my sons’ sake.”

He searched her eyes. “The motherfucker hit you. Didn’t he?”

She lowered her gaze again. “Things had escalated to a crisis point. One night, he came home in the wee hours. When he got into bed, he smelled like perfume and sex. I told him to get away from me. He refused, so I left the bed. He came after me, grabbed me by the arm, and backhanded me across the face.”

The handsome, dashing, romantic Marine who’d won her heart had morphed into a man she didn’t know and couldn’t relate to, even remotely. He was a mean stranger, whose temperament she mistrusted. All the new and terrible traits he’d acquired had manifested themselves that night. To this day, she could see the rage in his eyes, feel the hateful blow to her face, and taste her fear of him.

“Did you call the police?”

She shook her head. “I waited until he’d passed out, then got the boys up, left the house, and drove to Daddy’s. When he saw my face, he became livid. I was afraid he’d do something rash, and it was all I could do to keep him from going after Jeremy and extracting his pound of flesh.

“Short of that, he wanted me to file a police report. But I just wanted to be away from Jeremy and out of the marriage as soon as possible. I moved into the Jones Street townhouse and filed for divorce that week.

“Jeremy contested it, but when he realized the futility of that, he fought me over child custody. He dragged his feet, intentionally created delays. I persisted. You heard in court how it all played out.” She finished the last of her wine, then looked across at him. “Long answer to your question about my life with him.”

He returned to the rocking chair, spread his knees wide, propped his forearms on his thighs, and clasped his hands between them. He turned his head toward her. “It’s an ugly story, Amelia.”

“Which you promised not to write.”

“I did, and I won’t.” Then he looked past the railing toward the dunes and the beach beyond. The only sounds were the squeak of the rocking chairs and the whish of the surf. When he looked at her again, she knew what his next question was going to be before he asked it.

“Who took the photographs from under the doormat?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Last night, I watched the four of you pile into your car. You stopped and picked up Bernie at his house. As soon as you were out of sight, I carried the photos over here and placed th