Criminal

closer, all he could think was how good it felt to be near another person. This was what being with Sara had done to Will. She’d taken away his ability to be alone. She’d broken through his solitude. She’d dragged him into a world where he didn’t just want things—he needed them. He needed to be touched. He needed to feel her arms around him.
    “Poor baby,” Angie said. She kissed his ear, his neck. Will felt a familiar stirring in his body. When she slipped her hand inside his shirt, he didn’t stop her. When her mouth found his, he didn’t stop her. His hand went to her breast. She pressed closer against him.
    But she tasted like nothing. Not mints or honey or those little sour candies Sara liked. Angie’s hands rested on his shoulders, palms flat, not wrapped around the back of his neck. Not pulling him closer. Pushing him away.
    Will tried to kiss her again. Angie moved back out of his reach, just as he knew she would. That’s how she worked. Once she got something, she didn’t want it anymore.
    Will breathed out a heavy sigh. “I don’t love you.” He corrected, “I’m not in love with you.”
    She crossed her arms as she sat back in the chair. “Am I supposed to be hurt by that?”
    Will shook his head. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted her to stop.
    “Get real, baby. Sara may be all lovey-dovey now and telling you she wants to know all about you, but what’s she really gonna do with that knowledge?”
    He couldn’t answer the question, but he knew one thing for certain. “She won’t use it against me.”
    “That’s sweet, but tell me this: how’s she gonna go to sleep beside you every night knowing your father’s DNA is swirling around inside you? Nature trumps nurture, baby. Sara’s a doctor. Eventually she’s gonna start to wonder what you’re really capable of.” She leaned closer. “Think about the terror you’re gonna see in her eyes.”
    Will stared at her. There was a nasty twist to her mouth, a hollow look to her eyes. She wasn’t just thinner. She was almost gaunt. For as long as Will had known her, Angie had always worn her makeup heavy—not because she needed to, but because she wanted the cover. Thick black eyeliner around her eyes. Dark brown eye shadow with a sparkle of glitter. Deep red lipstick. Blush on her high cheekbones. Her curly brown hair draped along the sides of her face. Her lips were a perfect bow tie. She was tall and thin with breasts that spilled out of the tight shirts she favored. She was the sort of woman that made men cheat on their wives. Literally. Angie loved taking things away from other people. She was a temptress. She was a siren. She was a thief.
    She was also high as a kite. Her pupils were blown wide open.
    He asked, “Are you taking pills again?” He tried to take her hand, but she jerked away. “Angie?”
    She pushed herself up from the table and went back to the sink.
    Will sat back in the chair. “What are you doing, Angie?”
    She didn’t answer him. Instead, she stared out the kitchen window. Her shoulder blades were sharp. The skull and crossbones tattoo she’d gotten when she was eighteen had faded to a light blue.
    Will put his hand in his pocket. He felt the cold metal of his wedding ring. Sara kept her husband’s wedding ring in a small wooden box on the mantel over the fireplace. Her ring was in there, too. They were tied together with a white ribbon, resting on a pillow of blue satin.
    Will repeated, “What are you doing, Angie?”
    Her shoulders went up. “I guess this is what happens to me without you.”
    “You’ve been without me lots of times.”
    “We both know this is different.”
    He couldn’t argue with the truth. “Please stop hurting yourself.”
    “I will when you stop fucking your girlfriend.”
    Angie walked out of the kitchen. She picked up her purse where she’d dropped it on the couch. She turned around at the front door and blew him a kiss.
    And then she was gone.
    Will pressed his forehead to the table. The Formica was cold against his skin. Betty’s paws tapped on his leg again. He let her into his lap. Her fur was wiry under his hand. She licked his fingers.
    Angie’s mother had killed herself with drugs. It was a twenty-seven-year-long suicide. That was what brought Angie to the children’s home. Deidre Polaski had spent more than half of Angie’s life in a vegetative coma, warehoused in a state hospital. She’d finally died a few months ago. Maybe that’s what