Reputation(16)

The kitchen light is on, which is a huge red flag. Among his other lovely qualities, Greg is a stickler about energy efficiency; he has a conniption if we leave lights on when we aren’t in rooms. Did I leave this on? Did I come in the kitchen first? There’s nothing.

And then I see it.

Feet splay out on the travertine tile. I stop short, wondering if this is some sort of drunken delusion. These are Greg’s feet. And they are connected to Greg’s Adidas around-the-house pants. Which are connected to a T-shirt from Bar Harbor, Maine, and then . . . oh Jesus. Greg is lying facedown in a pool of . . . something.

“Greg!” I scream, dropping to my knees.

His back rises and falls erratically, and he makes a gurgling sound. Now that I’m on the tiles, I have a clear view of what the liquid is: blood.

“Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Fuck.” I’m suddenly sober. I touch my husband’s cheek. It’s cold and clammy. “Greg!” I scream. “Can you hear me? Who did this?”

I roll his face to the side so he can look at me, and I nearly puke. I have never seen someone so pale. I have never seen lips so blue. His eyes have a milky glaze. Blood seems to be pouring out of somewhere on his abdomen, but I’m afraid to roll him over to find a wound. My gaze crazily scans the kitchen floor, the island, the huge farmhouse table. I don’t see a sharp object. I don’t see anything incriminating.

“Greg.” I hold his clammy cheeks. “Greg, please! What happened? Who did this to you?”

There are goose bumps on my arms. My whole body is wet and sticky with blood. I wonder if I’m going into shock. “Honey, oh my God, I . . .” And then it hits me: Aurora is home, too. I clap my hand over my mouth. “Aurora,” I say to him. “Is she okay? Where is she?”

Greg’s eyes search mine. They blink once. Is this some sort of code? I need to check on my daughter, but her bedroom is three flights up, and I’m afraid that if I leave Greg, he’ll die. Or will he die regardless? I feel like an asshole for wholeheartedly hating him tonight. I feel like an idiot because I have no first-aid or CPR skills.

I’m in such shock that it seems to take me forever to find my phone. Blood from my fingers smears the screen, making it difficult to punch in the digits for 911.

“Stay with me,” I tell my husband as I speak to the operator. This cannot be happening.

The ambulance comes blessedly fast. I open the door for the EMTs and say some words, but the panic and fear and my breath muddle everything in my mind. They march in with their equipment jangling, smelling like Axe body spray and McDonald’s drive-through, which turns my stomach again, reminding me, Oh no, Kit, you aren’t sober by a long shot. And then, suddenly, they’re kneeling down next to him. One shouts stats—that Greg’s blood pressure is low, that his pulse is “thready,” that his oxygen level is “dangerous.” And in another blink, one of them is looking at me. I realize he’s asked me a question. I make him ask it again: “What sort of weapon made this wound, ma’am?”

I blink. “I-I don’t know,” I finally say. “I found him like this.”

And then, I remember: Aurora. I need to find her. I dash upstairs.

The second-floor landing is dark. The hectic sounds from downstairs fall away. The wood floor makes a spooky creak under my feet as I travel down the hall. I stop halfway down, my eye on a shadow in the guest room. Shit. What if whoever did that to Greg is hiding up here now? My heart pounds. I snap on some lights. The hallway is empty, lined with perfectly even photographs.

I head up the second flight of stairs to the top level, where Aurora and, until recently, Sienna sleep. After moving in here, Greg paid to have the top floor remodeled, breaking down the walls of the chopped-up little bedrooms and creating one big loft space that the girls share. The room is full of Lovesac beanbags, a ballet barre, a giant-screen TV; and we carved out two big walk-in closets. But there’s no Aurora in the pink Jenny Lind bed by the window. My heart nose-dives. “Aurora?” I call weakly. Nothing.

I fumble for my phone and manage to successfully dial her number after the third try. The phone rings once, twice . . .

“Mom?” Aurora sounds sleepy. “What time is it?”

“Where are you?” I screech.

“I’m at Lilly’s.” Aurora sounds confused. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Ma’am?”

The voice floats up the stairs. I glance down the staircase. It’s not one of the EMTs but a short, muscular police officer. He has close-cropped red hair and squinty eyes, and he’s blinking hard like a man who’s drunk too much Red Bull.

“Aurora, I’ll call you back,” I murmur. I blink at the officer. I’m sweaty suddenly. I wonder if I stink of booze.

“Are you his wife?” the officer asks.

I nod. I think I nod.

“Mind coming down here for a sec?”

I nod, but I don’t move. It feels like I’ve just been dropped into a bucket of ice. I don’t know how I suddenly know, but I’m positive my husband is going to die. Maybe he’s already dead.

And then I think of how I’d ordered him not to come with me to the benefit. “Why are you punishing me?” Greg had protested. “You’re really going to believe some stupid website?”

“You really think a hacker went to the trouble of making up e-mails in your account?” I snapped. “Just admit it, Greg! Just admit you did a terrible, terrible thing!”