Read Online Too Easy by Bruce Deitrick Price - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bruce Deitrick Price
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they always look on a damp day in March.
She sits toward the back, orders the chicken-salad plate. A light lunch for a light appetite.
I mustnât be rash, she thinks. But I also donât want to be a fool. . . . Be a fool or look foolish? Interesting distinction. Well, I donât want either, now that I think about it, so the heck with that distinction.
It all seems very complicated. Life, living, going on. . . .
Well, there is one thing. . . . She canât imagine herself confronting Robert. Asking him straight out. Hey, whatâs going on? No, she cannot do this.
She imagines the scene, just a bit, and it immediately becomes impossible. Flying off the roof of the house is more probable.
If you ask, she thinks, everything could blow up in your face. Who knows what drastic action he might take? Or what hurt he might feel? A marriage could be wrecked, or at least poisoned. You could end up far worse than you started.
Or he looks you in the eye and lies. And then where are you? Heâll be more on guard, more cunning. Life will be even tenser.
Maybe itâs better to lie to myself , just seal off the door to this room. Is this what most wives do? I bet it is.
Well, could she hint at her suspicions? Even that is difficult to imagine. Geee, dear, is that lipstick on your collar? Oh, wine? Of course it is.
The thing is, she decides, I canât get ahead of myself. Here I am with my miserable little suspicions, my damaged little feelings. Thin air probably. My own fault, in any case. And what? Iâm going to ruin a marriage with a single sentence? Itâs crazy even to think about it. I donât have any evidence at all. Not really.
Anne pays for the lunch and goes back out to the street. She has some time. She decides to walk a few blocks, clear her head. Itâs quite cold. Good, she thinks. Iâll take physical pain any time.
Evidence ânow thereâs a friendly word. Not exactly friendly. In fact, ominous. But I know the word; Iâve used it a thousand times. Iâm comfortable with it. Either thereâs evidence, somewhere in the world, or there isnât. What could be simpler than that? Well, not simple. But fundamental. Yes or no, on or off. The reason the computers work, the basis of all intellectual progress. Either something is or it isnât.
She finds this litany reassuring. She walks along unseeing, repeating the phrases. Evidence. There is some or there isnât.
Evidence.
But how does she get this magical stuff? Sheâs up here inWhite Plains. They live in Bronxville. The evidence, if there is such a thing, is in Manhattan. Well, most likely.
Anne walks six blocks up Dumont, turns over to Sullivan and then starts back along Granby toward work.
She considers things sheâs seen or read about. . . . Looking through his suits. For what? A matchbook? Hah! The manâs working in the city of Manhattan. He could have anything in his suits. He got good grades in college. Whatâs he going to do, carry around some girlâs name? Maybe a little noteâI LOVE CINDY. Come on. Alright, what about his address book? His briefcase? His papers? Same difference. Robertâs a careful, organized man. Heâs not going to keep the evidence handy, where any moron of a wife can find it.
Well, alright, Iâll look!
She laughs bitterly. This is being a fool or looking like a fool? One? Both? In any case, something dreadful. Something sneaky and devious and underhanded. Oh, God, and what if I find this evidence Iâm talking about? Then the nightmare begins, right?
The firmâs building is up ahead. Modern, solid, huge, oddly comforting. Never mind. The last thing she wants at the moment is to go back to work.
Anne thinks of her house, going from room to room. Is there someplace where he might leave a trace? What about the cars? The yard? She goes back into the house. The phone? Well, she could glance at the
She sits toward the back, orders the chicken-salad plate. A light lunch for a light appetite.
I mustnât be rash, she thinks. But I also donât want to be a fool. . . . Be a fool or look foolish? Interesting distinction. Well, I donât want either, now that I think about it, so the heck with that distinction.
It all seems very complicated. Life, living, going on. . . .
Well, there is one thing. . . . She canât imagine herself confronting Robert. Asking him straight out. Hey, whatâs going on? No, she cannot do this.
She imagines the scene, just a bit, and it immediately becomes impossible. Flying off the roof of the house is more probable.
If you ask, she thinks, everything could blow up in your face. Who knows what drastic action he might take? Or what hurt he might feel? A marriage could be wrecked, or at least poisoned. You could end up far worse than you started.
Or he looks you in the eye and lies. And then where are you? Heâll be more on guard, more cunning. Life will be even tenser.
Maybe itâs better to lie to myself , just seal off the door to this room. Is this what most wives do? I bet it is.
Well, could she hint at her suspicions? Even that is difficult to imagine. Geee, dear, is that lipstick on your collar? Oh, wine? Of course it is.
The thing is, she decides, I canât get ahead of myself. Here I am with my miserable little suspicions, my damaged little feelings. Thin air probably. My own fault, in any case. And what? Iâm going to ruin a marriage with a single sentence? Itâs crazy even to think about it. I donât have any evidence at all. Not really.
Anne pays for the lunch and goes back out to the street. She has some time. She decides to walk a few blocks, clear her head. Itâs quite cold. Good, she thinks. Iâll take physical pain any time.
Evidence ânow thereâs a friendly word. Not exactly friendly. In fact, ominous. But I know the word; Iâve used it a thousand times. Iâm comfortable with it. Either thereâs evidence, somewhere in the world, or there isnât. What could be simpler than that? Well, not simple. But fundamental. Yes or no, on or off. The reason the computers work, the basis of all intellectual progress. Either something is or it isnât.
She finds this litany reassuring. She walks along unseeing, repeating the phrases. Evidence. There is some or there isnât.
Evidence.
But how does she get this magical stuff? Sheâs up here inWhite Plains. They live in Bronxville. The evidence, if there is such a thing, is in Manhattan. Well, most likely.
Anne walks six blocks up Dumont, turns over to Sullivan and then starts back along Granby toward work.
She considers things sheâs seen or read about. . . . Looking through his suits. For what? A matchbook? Hah! The manâs working in the city of Manhattan. He could have anything in his suits. He got good grades in college. Whatâs he going to do, carry around some girlâs name? Maybe a little noteâI LOVE CINDY. Come on. Alright, what about his address book? His briefcase? His papers? Same difference. Robertâs a careful, organized man. Heâs not going to keep the evidence handy, where any moron of a wife can find it.
Well, alright, Iâll look!
She laughs bitterly. This is being a fool or looking like a fool? One? Both? In any case, something dreadful. Something sneaky and devious and underhanded. Oh, God, and what if I find this evidence Iâm talking about? Then the nightmare begins, right?
The firmâs building is up ahead. Modern, solid, huge, oddly comforting. Never mind. The last thing she wants at the moment is to go back to work.
Anne thinks of her house, going from room to room. Is there someplace where he might leave a trace? What about the cars? The yard? She goes back into the house. The phone? Well, she could glance at the
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