“Griffin,” I said, panicking and leaning back because I thought he was going to hit me. And here it came: my first apology. Heartfelt, at the time. “I’m so sorry if I said the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you did hurt me.”
My eyes filled with tears—both because I was scared and because I had obviously touched a tender spot in Griffin. I always thought of him as so tough to do the job he did; he was sensitive to me, to the victims whose cases he prosecuted, but I never thought of him as being so vulnerable. Thin skinned. “I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
“I don’t want to hit you,” he said. “And because of that, I need you to be out of my sight. I go out or you do. Your choice. I need time alone.”
I turned into an ice sculpture, frozen in shock. Without waiting for me to reply, he walked out of the house. I heard the car start and drive away. I was stunned. And terrified.
I couldn’t stop thinking about those gleaming-black raging eyes. How do green eyes turn black? Was it my imagination? A trick of the morning light? I had just seen my husband turn into a monster.
But the longer he was gone that day, the more my emotions shifted. I told myself I must have been wrong. Eyes could not change color—I had imagined it. And had I heard him correctly? Griffin would never threaten me. Not the man I’d loved so long.
I found myself thinking of how he had said I’d hurt him. I wondered, What could I have said differently? Was it my tone? I looked at the kitchen plans. He had wanted to surprise me, thought I would be delighted. I began to convince myself that no wonder he was hurt by my reaction: I had not appreciated the gift. I had dismissed his effort, not been thankful that he wanted to spend so much money on a kitchen to make me happy.
When he came back, he was his old self. He brought me a bouquet of sunflowers from Grey Gables Farm. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me. I shivered with relief at his touch, at the sight of his green eyes. He tilted his head back and smiled.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” I said.
“I believe you,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
“If you want a new kitchen, it’s fine. It’s great,” I said.
“Claire, that means the world to me. I love you to pieces.”
“I love you too,” I said, and then he led me upstairs, into our bedroom with an entire wall of windows looking out to sea.
I told myself I was not “the abused woman type”—as if there were such a thing. I was strong, could take care of myself, and I could handle anyone’s pain and carry it for them. But abuse, though it can seem to happen all at once, is cumulative. I was like a lobster in a pot of cold water, the temperature being raised bit by bit before I realized I was in danger. Every apology I made to Griffin chipped away at my soul, brought me closer to being boiled alive, because I gave up a little more of myself. And a little more. And a little more.
Griffin wound up working very closely with Sallie Benson to create the kitchen we had now. Many people would find it beautiful. It was featured in Luxury Coastline Magazine. As much as Griffin wanted me to love the kitchen, I couldn’t. I hated it. It was all white marble, white tiles, white wainscoting, stainless steel appliances, and cookware fit for a professional chef. Every surface was smooth and sleek—and sterile. And it reminded me of the first time I saw his eyes turn black.
The funny thing was, in spite of what I considered an ice-cold color scheme, Sallie was warm. When she finished the job and came over to drop off a bouquet of all-white flowers, she beamed at me and gave me a hug.
“You were wonderful to work for,” she said.
“I was? I was hardly here. Griffin oversaw everything.”
“Oh, Claire. You’re a brilliant artist, and I was worried I wouldn’t be up to your standards. But Griffin told me you checked in after I left each day and that you loved the progress. It was so encouraging.”
“I’m glad,” I said, even though I had mostly removed myself, found it hard to praise a room I couldn’t imagine myself living in.
“He’s such a sweetheart, and he’s so in love with you. That really, oh gosh, it moves me. I go into a lot of houses and see a lot of marriages, and Claire, yours is inspiring.”
I couldn’t even respond to that. Two months of being married to Griffin and I had started thinking of leaving. It was a tug-of-war, ruled by his moods. When he was loving, I was positive that was the real Griffin and that things between us would get better. But when he was angry, I shut down, became depressed. I’d wonder—is this the real Griffin? And often, on those nights, I would dream of Ellen. I hadn’t yet started thinking he killed her, but if he treated me this way, he may have started with her.
“I was intimidated by you being an artist,” Sallie had said. “I don’t need to tell you that you can add color touches in here—you’ll make it your own, and it will be beautiful!”
“Thank you, Sallie,” I said.
A few days later, Sloane and Edward Hawke came to dinner, and Griffin’s delight in showing off the kitchen seemed to captivate Edward. Within a week, they had signed a contract with Sallie Benson. When the work was done, the Hawkes had all the Catamount Bluff neighbors over for cocktails—Wade and Leonora Lockwood, Neil and Abigail Coffin, and Griffin and me.
“Here’s to Sallie!” Sloane said, raising her glass.
“Dan certainly married up,” Neil said, laughing.
“Sure as hell did,” Wade said. “Never thought he’d wind up with a gal like that.”
I saw Leonora shoot Wade a sharp look and wondered what it meant.
“Well, she did a great job and we’re happy,” Edward said, putting his arm around Sloane, and we all clinked glasses.
I found myself thinking about that toast to Sallie while I cut up the melon for Griffin’s breakfast after our ugly dawn beach encounter. I used an expensive French paring knife, from a set chosen by Sallie because she thought a dark wood knife block would make a stunning contrast to the white marble counter.
“Are there any articles about the trial?” I asked Griffin. He was still at the table, reading the paper.
“Of course,” he said. “It’s going to make jury selection tricky. I don’t know who’s leaking what we have for evidence, but someone is. Right here—an unnamed source saying we have a student’s underwear with Jackson’s DNA on them.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
His silence made the sound of my knife slicing through cantaloupe and clicking on the counter sound like it was happening in an echo chamber.
“Too bad?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I know how closely you guard your facts, and you don’t want the jury pool hearing . . .”
“It’s a little more than too bad, Claire,” he said. “Do you know what Jackson did to those girls? I could sit here right now and tell you the specifics, you want to hear them? I need an impartial jury. I can’t afford to lose a big case right in the midst of my campaign.”
“Of course,” I said. “I know.”
“Of course. You know,” he said in a mimicking voice, pushing his chair back, then slapping the newspaper down on the table. “If you knew the things men do to women, you’d fall apart.”