Consequences(91)

“Tony, please stop”—she gasped for breath as her temple and cheek stung—“I was hiking in the woods.”

He let go of her shoulders, and shoved her onto the sofa. He followed and loomed over her body as she lay against the cushions. “Do you expect me to believe you were in the woods until this time of night?”

She tried to explain, “I was in the woods.” “The sun was setting.” “It was so beautiful.” Her words came in gasps.

Finally, he yelled, “Shut the f*ck up! You were out there because you knew I was coming home and you didn’t want to face me after what you did.”

Claire’s mind spun. “I don’t know what you mean. You told me you were coming home Saturday, this is still Friday”—tears infiltrated her words—“I haven’t done anything.”

Tony slapped her again. “Liar!”

Claire fought the sobs and fear, as she watched him methodically walk to the light switch illuminate the suite. Immediately, she noticed that his suit coat was missing, and his shirt and slacks were wrinkled. His chest visibly expanded and contracted with each labored breath, and his eyes were not only black—but violent. In the past he’d been upset—but in control. Tonight rage replaced self-control. Instinctively, Claire knew he’d crossed some invisible threshold. She just didn’t know why. She did know—the reason scared the hell out of her.

The room echoed with silence as he walked to her dining table and picked up papers. That quiet shattered as his booming voice demanded, “Then tell me—tell me how this is a misunderstanding”—he shook the pages in his hand while his words came too close together—“I jumped to conclusions last time. Tell me how I’m doing that now.”

Claire feared talking, but she did, “Tony, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you are talking about.”

He threw the pages at her and they scattered on the floor near her feet. When he didn’t move, she bent down to pick them up. Although, her vision was now blurry from tears, she tried desperately to blink and focus on the pages. They were typed, and appeared to be from the Internet. The last two pages contained pictures: pictures of the two of them at the symphony—at some event she couldn’t distinguish—in New York—and walking down the street in Chicago, arm in arm. Then there were pictures of Claire in college—with friends—and one of her and Meredith sitting at a table talking.

The breath in her chest suddenly dissipated. Her eyes focused on the words:

Questions Answered—the Mystery Woman in Anthony Rawlings’s Life

Agrees to a One on One Interview.

Claire’s eyes grew wide and immediately overflowed with a flood of tears. She couldn’t believe what she’d read. Oh my God! “Tony! Oh my God—I did not agree to an interview.”

“So, you’re telling me that this picture of you talking to this woman”—he pointed to the picture as he stood over Claire—“is a print shop fabrication and just like at the barbeque, this is a colossal misunderstanding?”

His closeness filled her with dread. It was her talking to Meredith…She tried to explain, “It is me, but—” His hands picked her off the sofa and pinned her against a wall. Claire attempted reason, “Tony, I wasn’t giving an interview.” She hit the wall with enough force for a picture to fall. His grip hurt her arms; she tasted the salt of her tears as her ears reverberated with his booming voice and rang from his repeated slaps.

His face descended. “Then what the hell are you doing?”—he shook her again—“Claire, I trusted you! You told me I could trust you and I believed you! I sent you to a spa day! This is how you show your gratitude—by breaking all my rules—by public failure?” He released his grip; Claire fell to the floor like a rag doll.