Softly he said, “I told her.”

Miranda didn’t respond.

“Did you hear me?” he asked. “I told her. Everything about us. And I’ve been to see my lawyer. I’ve changed the terms of my—”

“Richard,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t make a difference. Whether you’re married or divorced, I don’t want to see you.”

“Just one more time.”

“No.”

“I’m coming over. Right now—”

“No.”

“You have to see me, Miranda!”

“I don’t have to do anything!” she cried.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Miranda stared in disbelief at the receiver. He’d hung up. Damn him, he’d hung up, and fifteen minutes from now he’d be knocking on her door. She’d managed to carry on so bravely these past three weeks, working side by side with him, keeping her smile polite, her voice neutral. But now he was coming and he’d rip away her mask of control and there they’d be again, spiraling into the same old trap she’d just managed to crawl out of.

She ran to the closet and yanked out a sweatshirt. She had to get away. Somewhere he wouldn’t find her, somewhere she could be alone.

She fled out the front door and down the porch steps and began to walk, swiftly, fiercely, down Willow Street. At ten-thirty, the neighborhood was already tucked in for the night. Through the windows she passed she saw the glow of lamplight, the silhouettes of families in various domestic poses, the occasional flicker of a fire in a hearth. She felt that old envy stir inside her again, the longing to be part of the same loving whole, to be stirring the embers of her own hearth. Foolish dreams.

Shivering, she hugged her arms to her chest. There was a chill in the air, not unseasonable for August in Maine. She was angry now, angry about being cold, about being driven from her own home. Angry at him. But she didn’t stop; she kept walking.