Death Before Facebook

waste.
    Not of Leighton’s life. He was a small-minded sadist whose very unacceptability had attracted her—that and his cruelty, perhaps. There were things she wanted to explore then, things she had long since left behind.
    It was a waste of her life, and Mike’s. She had married Mike out of desperation and fury at Cole and out of guilt on Geoff’s account.
    But it should never have happened. It was a mistake for all three of them.
    She had tried often to imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t insisted that time, Miss Sexual Revolution spinning out of control.
    Or was that what she was? Maybe she was Mrs. Leighton Kavanagh hoping to get caught.
    If that was it, it didn’t have to happen that way. She could have been indiscreet in some other way, some less dangerous way, and Leighton would have divorced her, and in the ensuing scandal Kit would have divorced Cole and that would have been it. No fuss, no muss. They would simply have changed partners.
    Yet even now, even as guilt and contrition pounded within her like a headache, she could remember the pure excitement of that night, the thrill of waiting in bed for Cole, decked out in a black lace camisole and silk stockings. She had even worn high heels to bed. But that was too silly. She had taken them off before he got there and she and Cole had laughed about it later.
    She wasn’t laughing at the time. She was in another world, so clouded with her own desire that if Geoff had gotten up she couldn’t have dealt with it. The sensation was so strong it was almost painful. Actually it did have an element of pain, a constriction in her pelvis that begged to be eased.
    And later, the sculptured outline of Cole’s arms and shoulders in the candlelight—then Leighton. She hadn’t heard anything, not the key in the lock, not his footsteps, not anything except his voice: “What the hell is going on here?”
    She knew what he would do if he caught an intruder in his home, had heard him say it a thousand times: “Shoot him on sight.” Cole was the worst kind of intruder, the kind that needed shooting most.
    She had to get to Leighton, she had to get his gun. She had had her eyes closed, and had opened them when she heard his voice, and then all she saw was the way the room had become darker, as his body blocked the candlelight. But she knew he had his gun.
    She got off Cole so fast he groaned; somehow or other she must have hurt him. She hit the floor, stumbled on one of the high heels, and went down on one knee. A vise grabbed her elbow—Leighton’s left hand.
    “Who the fuck is this?” he said, and drew his gun with his other hand.
    Her head was almost at his hip level. She watched the gun leave its holster, saw him point it at Cole, all in one smooth motion. And she bit his thigh. Not hard, she thought now (or the autopsy would have shown tooth marks), but as hard as she could through his uniform pants.
    He screamed—a man’s scream, something like “Aaaaaaa”— and kicked at her, squeezed harder on her elbow.
    Cole rose up from the bed, using his locked hands as a bludgeon, catching Leighton square on the nose. She didn’t see that, but he told her later, as they were straightening the room.
    What she knew was that Leighton lost his balance and stumbled, letting go of her elbow. She pitched her body into his, and was almost instantly sandwiched between Leighton and Cole, who had grabbed Leighton’s right hand.
    She bit her lip in a savage effort not to scream, so as not to wake Geoff. Terrified, she slithered down between the two men and, once more on the floor, saw her opportunity. She stuck her shoulders between Leighton’s legs, which were now braced, feet somewhat apart, put one hand on each leg, and pushed. She didn’t feel him start to fall, even to shake or seemingly to notice, until she heard the shot and he fell backward, away from her.
    She never knew whether that bit of distraction had made the difference, whether he’d lost mental equilibrium if not physical. Her entire face was sore with the effort not to scream.
    She had gone right away to check on Geoff, as soon as she could get something on, leaving Cole to cope with what had happened. The boy was awake, but only barely. She told him the noise was upstairs, one of the neighbors had dropped something heavy.
    He was a boy who watched a lot of television; even at four, he knew what a gunshot sounded like. He probably didn’t believe her.
    She knew why Cole killed him,