Sex this afternoon hadn’t happened. Kissing Caroline in her driveway had been a gesture of gratitude, a wax seal on her vow of silence. It had not been a tugboat maneuver to lower her face to his car window until her breast was resting softly on the jamb and Hugh had what he wanted: her nipple in his mouth. Then he was back out of the car and hustling her inside for round two. No. Anne was a seasoned litigator; she’d get the story out of Caroline in a matter of seconds if Hugh didn’t give Caroline a crash course on how to handle the onslaught. His go-to tactic was pretending he was a delinquent child in his own principal’s office. Bamboo shoots couldn’t drive the truth out of uncooperative five-year-olds. They were like tiny members of the KGB. Hugh made for the kitchen, zeroing in on the cordless phone with a hazy plan to embed in the garage. Through the foyer, past his wife’s office—Hugh averted his eyes. Scene of his inquisition, makeshift ICU for his brother’s ruined baseball card: Hugh felt nothing.
