My bedroom reeked of sex.

I was sitting on the bed with my legs stretched out in front of me and my back sunk into the two pillows propped against the headboard. I stared down my nude body at my limp dick resting on my thigh. It was crusty, coated with my dried fluids and—oh god!—hers. What had I done? Lyrics from the Hank Williams song Your Cheatin’ Heart haunted my thoughts:

Your cheatin’ heart will pine someday
And crave the love you threw away

I had it all. A twenty-year marriage with the most wonderful woman in the world. An amazing daughter away at college. An exciting job with the FBI that I loved. Had I thrown it all away? Been tricked, bewitched into doing the unthinkable?

I struggled to grasp how I had gotten to this point. With my eyes closed and face cupped in my hands, I strained to remember what had happened. I thought back to the beginning.

I had been slumped on the couch watching Monday Night Football. An open bag of Lays potato chips was on the cushion to my right. A cold, half-empty can of Coke was on the table at my left. The Dallas Cowboys were playing my hometown Arizona Cardinals and we were winning.

Life was good.

Until the doorbell rang.

Another Amazon package for Sophie, I thought.

I begrudgingly pushed off the couch and padded to the door in my stocking feet. My wife was always buying something on Amazon. No big deal. It was during a commercial anyway so I didn’t even have to pause the football game.

When I opened the front door, my jaw dropped. There was no Amazon package waiting. Rachel Thompson stood there wearing tight jeans and a sweater. Her arms were crossed across her chest with her hands on their opposite shoulders as she shivered. That Phoenix night had a chill.

It wasn’t the first time my young next door neighbor had caused me to gawk. I had always fought the urge to ogle her, often losing the battle because she was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. Her big eyes were blue as the Phoenix summer sky, looking even lighter because of her long black eyelashes. Not the clip-on kind. Real ones. And her jet black hair made her pale skin seem even paler, but not in a ghostly way. In a tantalizing, purity way that any of the classic artists would have put on canvas if they had imagined such beauty. Her hair was typically pulled back in a ponytail, but that night it hung loose, framing her face and hanging in front of her shoulders to the tips of her breasts. But this time it wasn’t the blue in her big eyes that mesmerized me. They were red and puffy and watery, and filled with misery.

“May I come in?” Rachel asked.

That brought me out of my stupor. “Oh, uh, Sophie isn’t home.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“May I come in? I want to talk to you.”

When I stepped aside, Rachel rushed into my house. To get out of the cold or before I changed my mind, I’d never know. After closing the door, the two of us stood in silence. With the outside chill gone, Rachel lowered her arms to her sides. My eyes automatically dropped to her rounded cone-shaped breasts before I could stop them. I quickly looked up at her face, but she hadn’t caught me. Her eyes were staring at me, or rather through me. Not knowing what she wanted, I waited.

Rachel snapped out of her trance-like state and looked around. She had been in my house often enough to know the layout, but her eyes searched anyway. Was she looking for my wife? I had told her that Sophie wasn’t home. The tension was becoming unbearable. I needed to say something. Anything. But what?

Rachel’s head turned toward the living room. “Oh, you’re watching football.”

“Uh, yeah, Cardinals-Cowboys.”

Her eyes lowered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I should go.”

When Rachel turned toward the door, I grabbed her forearm to stop her. In my FBI job, I had seen many distressed people. Rachel stiffened and then faced me. Tears were now streaming down both cheeks.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Rachel hung her head and shook it. But she didn’t say anything. Or move. We stood like that for what seemed like an hour although it was only a few moments. With my hand still latched onto her arm, I walked her into the living room and sat her on the chair on the other side of the table my Coke can was on. The chair swiveled so a person sitting in it could watch television or have a conversation with someone on the couch. I re-took my seat on the couch. The game had progressed, but my eyes were on the young woman. I waited while she sniffled and rubbed the never-ending flow of tears from her eyes. Whenever the announcers got excited, my eyes darted to the television to see what had happened, but they would always return to my distraught neighbor.

I didn’t know what to say or do. What did a forty-five-year old man know about the problems of a woman in her late twenties? I was usually clueless with my daughter. And even with my wife who was near my age.

With a side glance, I was watching the replay of a fumble, waiting to see which team recovered, when Rachel asked, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

I felt the tightness in my gut. It was one of those dreaded questions women asked men, like “Does this dress make me look fat?”

“You are very pretty,” I said.

“Maybe I should be blonde like Sophie.”

“No!” It came out louder and with more force than I had intended. “I mean, your black hair goes great with your complexion.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I mean it.”

“What about my body?”

The tightness in my gut returned. No guy should have to answer that. It was one thing for two men to talk about a woman’s body, but not to a woman, especially not to the woman whose body was under scrutiny. But being a guy, my eyes automatically dropped to her breasts. This time Rachel caught me.

“My breasts are the problem,” Rachel said.

“Not all guys like big breasts.”

“So they are too small.”

“They’re perfect on you.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I mean it. I wouldn’t change anything if I were you.”

“So why is John cheating on me?”

My jaw dropped and my mouth hung open. I no longer heard the television.

“Am I immature?” Rachel asked before I could answer, not that I had an answer.

“No, you’re not immature. Why would you think that?”

“Because John would rather be with someone a lot older.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“If you knew what I know you wouldn’t say that. You say I’m pretty and have a good body. I think you’re patronizing me on my breasts, but whatever. So it must be because I’m young. Maybe he wants an older woman with more experience in bed. The sex must be better with someone with more experience.”

I almost blurted out, “Are you kidding me?” but caught myself as the tightness in my gut returned with a vengeance. This was getting more uncomfortable by the minute. Why couldn’t Sophie be home? Why couldn’t this be a girl-girl talk? Why did it have to be with me?

I was at a loss for what to say. I could easily say the wrong thing and be in the dog house for a month with Sophie—maybe longer. What could I say to Rachel? That she was beautiful and any man would give a nut to fuck her. She would claw my eyes out and tell my wife that I was a pervert.

My head was lowered with my eyes clamped shut trying to think of a way out when I heard the crinkling of the potato chip bag. I opened my eyes and turned to see Rachel place the bag on the coffee table in front of me and sit next to me. So close the knee of the leg folded underneath her pressed into the side of my thigh.

Rachel cupped my chin to hold my head still while she gazed into my eyes. Nothing was said as my mind went blank and terror immobilized my body. And then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine. Her tongue poked my lips and the tip even slid between them. That had the effect of turning on a switch that activated my mind. I grabbed her upper arms and shoved her back.

Stunned, Rachel gawked at me. Her bottom lip stuck out and quivered as fresh tears poured down her cheeks.

“I knew it!” she shouted. “Everything you said was bullshit!”

Rachel scooted to the far end of the couch and crossed her arms over her chest. Her crying increased. She now gulped in large gasps of air between sobs. My heart went out to her.

“Rachel, everything I said was true. You can have any man you want.”

“Yeah right!” She spat that out. “You just proved that’s bullshit!”

“Rachel, I’m married. I won’t cheat on Sophie.”

The tears stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Rachel stared at me with her big blue eyes, now redder than when she had arrived. Her head tilted to the side as if she was thinking, and then she bounced on the couch until she was next to me again. Rachel cupped my cheek with a soft touch and left her hand there.

“You mean it, don’t you?” Rachel said.

“Of course.”

“I knew you were a good man. I just didn’t know how good.”

“Rachel—”

She placed two fingertips from her other hand on my lips. “Sush. I have to tell you something. I’m sorry, you don’t deserve it, but I must.”

When I opened my mouth to speak, her fingernails scraped my upper lip and then the fingertips slipped between my lips. I jerked my head back. That caused her hand to slip off my cheek. She clasped her hands in her lap and wrung them with her head lowered.

“Please don’t say anything you’ll regret,” I said. “Let’s just make believe nothing happened.”

Rachel released a shoulder-lifting sigh before looking up and making eye contact.

“John is cheating on me,” she said.

“How do—?”

“I saw him. It was in the back seat of his car. The windows were steamed up and the car was shaking. He was fucking in the back seat.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s no reason to come here and—”

My mouth closed without finishing. I didn’t know how to say it delicately.

“I didn’t come here to fuck you,” Rachel said. “I came here to tell you who John was fucking in the car.”

“Why tell me?”

Her eyes dropped to her lap before raising to meet mine again. “Because it was Sophie.”

“That’s crazy.”

“It was her.”

My mouth became dry. My eyes watered. And then I thought of something.

“If the windows were foggy, how did you see who was in the car?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why are you saying it was Sophie?”

“Because when I confronted John, he told me. He told me that she was better at sex than me, that she knew what she was doing, sucked his cock better, and was a better fuck. John is the only man I’ve been with. I guess I don’t know enough about sex and didn’t satisfy him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Rachel swept the hair covering one cheek back over her ear and turned her head so that I could see the bruise near the ear. “John did this. And this.” She lifted the front of her sweater. Her white skin was marred with a fading yellow and black bruise. She then twisted around so that her back was to me and raised the bottom of the sweater up past her bra strap. Many bruises covered her back.

Rachel lowered the sweater and turned to face me. “When I confronted John, he denied it. When I didn’t let up, he blew up and hit me. And then he told me. He threw it in my face saying Sophie was better in the back seat of a car than I was in a bed. He said she had more passion than I ever will. And then he showed me the cock he fucked her with and made me suck it clean. When I resisted, that’s when he hit me in the face.”

I was aghast. Being in law enforcement, I knew about domestic violence. But this was someone I knew. And why was she saying it was Sophie? That was impossible.

“You can press charges,” I said.

“I can’t. I have nowhere to go.”

“Do you want to stay here while you figure out what to do?”

Rachel’s eyes got real big. “With Sophie here?”

“He’s not cheating with Sophie. He made that up. We live next door. Hers was probably the first name he thought of.”

Rachel lowered her eyes once again. “How did I know Sophie wasn’t going to be home when I came here?”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. She’s with John.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Do you guys use protection when you have sex?” Rachel asked.

“We, um ... Sophie had a hysterectomy.”

“Thought so. John wouldn’t use a rubber. When she comes home tonight I bet she takes a shower. Check out her panties. I bet John’s sperm will have leaked out of her. The crotch will be soaked with it. You’ll see I’m right.”

I was stunned and sat in silence. Rachel’s eyes were locked on my face. Studying me. Was this some sort of sick game she was playing? I had enough and jumped up from the couch.

“Rachel, I think you better leave.”

She also stood. “Okay, I’ll leave, but I’m not lying. Check her panties when she gets home. You’ll see.”

I escorted my young neighbor out of the house without another word spoken between us.

Needless to say, I was distraught as I aimlessly wandered through the house. Was Sophie cheating on me? Of course not. We were in love. I wracked my brain for any signs, any indication that something was amiss between me and Sophie. I came up blank. The anguish I was feeling changed to confusion. Rachel had to be lying. But why? Her bruises were real. Maybe she couldn’t stand how happy Sophie and I were while she was in a miserable marriage. Maybe in her grief-stricken state she wanted to ruin my marriage.

I paced through the house until I heard Sophie shout in her sweet voice, “I’m home. Who won?”

Who won? I had no idea. I had stopped watching the game. I rushed to where Sophie had come in from the garage and saw her glowing face. My FBI training kicked in and I scrutinized her. Her hair was messy. But she liked to drive with the car’s sunroof open with the heat on. Her hair flew straight up when she did that. One middle button on her blouse was undone and the shirttail wasn’t tucked all the way inside her skirt on one side. There could be dozens of reasons for that. I just couldn’t think of any.

“Well, who won?” Sophie asked again.

My eyes met hers. I didn’t see anything but happiness in them. I was looking for things that didn’t exist. Rachel’s mind game was working. I squeezed my hand into a fist and released it to relieve tension.

I shrugged. “Don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch.”

Sophie gave me a smile that warmed my heart. She had a twinkle in her eyes as she walked up to me and patted my cheek.

“Poor boy,” she said, “that’s one of the things that happens when you get old.”

I leaned in to kiss her, but Sophie turned her head. “Gonna take a shower. Long day. Feel grubby.”

That’s what Rachel had said she would do. The shower, not avoiding a kiss. What was with that? John had told Rachel that Sophie gave him a better blowjob than her. Did he come in Sophie’s mouth? Is that why she didn’t want to kiss me? I had never come in Sophie’s mouth. She had always told me to pull out so that made no sense. Wait! Why was I back to believing Rachel’s farfetched story? I cursed Rachel under my breath. Why was she putting these thoughts in my head? What was her game?

I trailed after Sophie to the master bedroom and cowered outside the open door until I heard the shower running. I snuck inside and tiptoed to the walk-in closet where the hamper was. Opening it, Sophie’s skirt and blouse were on the top with her bra on top of them. No panties. That was odd. I would have thought she would have put each article of clothing in as she took them off. First the skirt, then the blouse, then the bra, and finally the panties. Everything was in the proper order except the panties.

I moved her clothes around and noticed the skirt hadn’t simply been tossed into the hamper. It was balled up. While listening to my wife humming in the shower, I meticulously unfolded the skirt. My heart stopped when I saw the red nylon. I pinched the edge of her panties between my index finger and thumb and pulled them out. Dangling the red panties in the air, I saw what Rachel had warned me about. The crotch of the panties was soiled. Damp.

I laid the panties on the floor, balled the skirt up the way I remembered it being, and then placed the blouse on top of it and the bra on top of the blouse the way they had been. Then, plucking the panties off the floor with only my fingertips, I dashed to the kitchen holding the soiled undergarment away from my body like holding a dead, smelly mouse by the tail. It couldn’t be what Rachel had claimed it was, but just in case I didn’t want it anywhere near me. I retrieved a Ziplock plastic bag that we used to store leftover food and dropped the soiled panties inside. Then I sealed the bag and took it to the garage where I tossed it into the trunk of my car. I really didn’t know why. I just did it.

On the way back to the master bedroom, I passed the living room and realized the television was still on. I shut it and trudged to the bedroom, for the first time dreading being with my wife since I had known her. She was in the bathroom blow drying her hair. Her blonde hair used to bounce on her shoulders, but she had recently cut it shorter so that it came to the bottom of her earlobes. She claimed it was easier to take care of. I had never given any thought to it until now. Was that the real reason she had changed her hairstyle? I wracked my brain. When was it? How soon after John and Rachel had moved in next door?

While washing up and brushing my teeth for bed, I kept glancing at Sophie. She was in a good mood, swaying her hips to a melody in her head. She was still in great shape for a woman in her early forties. Sure, her belly had a paunch. So did mine. That came with age. Her breasts were larger than when she was younger and hung down, flattening and bulging at the sides. I admonished myself for telling Rachel that her small breasts were perfect. That had been improper. Had I been unconsciously thinking about Sophie’s flabby ones? Comparing the two women made me sure that Rachel had lied. Why would John want to have sex with Sophie when he had Rachel?

But what about the soiled panties? It probably wasn’t even semen. And maybe when Sophie pulled her skirt down, her thumbs were inside the panties and she pulled them down with the skirt. That would explain why the panties were inside the skirt. Rachel had manipulated me, put thoughts in my mind that were affecting my judgment. I was disliking my young neighbor more and more.

I was in bed when Sophie finished drying her hair. She slipped the nightgown over her head and let it slither down her body. A perfect body. Why was I finding fault with it? And when she climbed underneath the blanket, I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her head to my chest. Sophie snuggled up to me. After all these years, we were still in love.

After lying like that for a while, feeling her breath caress my bare chest, I said, “You called me old before.”

“Did not.”

“You did. When you came in the house and I told you I fell asleep in front of the TV. You said that was one of the things that happens to guys when they get old.”

Sophie giggled. “Well it is.”

“What else happens to a guy when he gets old?”

She chuckled harder. “His hair falls out and he forgets things.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know. Go to sleep.”

“Tell me.”

“I guess he doesn’t want sex as often. We used to have sex almost every day when we were young.”

I cupped Sophie’s chin and tilted her head up off my chest. I pressed my lips to hers and shoved my tongue into her mouth. Her tongue met it with the fresh taste of toothpaste. My hand traveled south underneath the blanket, found her breast, and squeezed it. Sophie moaned into my mouth as her tongue stopped moving for a moment. My hand continued downward, sliding over her belly until cupping her groin over her nightgown.

Sophie grabbed my arm with both hands and yanked my hand away.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Tomorrow’s work. That’s what’s the matter. Now go to sleep.”

Without even a kiss goodnight, Sophie flipped over onto her other side facing away from me.

The next morning, I rolled onto the cold sheet where Sophie slept. Glancing at the clock, I understood why. Sophie had left for work a good hour before. It was no surprise that I overslept. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, fretting over what Rachel had told me. Not that I believed anything she had said, not really, but I couldn’t get it out of my mind. And I was also bothered by Sophie’s comments about me getting old. Had she been joking when she said I didn’t want sex as often because I was old? It’s not like she was a teenager anymore either. Last night, she had been the one who pushed me away when I started getting frisky. So she must have been kidding since she hadn’t wanted sex. But the doubts had plagued me last night. I had stared at the ceiling in the dark trying to remember the last time we had sex. She must have been joking.

It wasn’t unusual for Sophie not to wake me before she left for work. I didn’t punch a clock at the FBI. I didn’t even go into the office every day. I worked my caseload, sometimes going into the office, sometimes working in the field, and sometimes working at home. Being on call 24/7, as long as I could be reached, I worked my own schedule. Sometimes long into the night. I had planned to work in the field that day, interviewing storeowners about one of my cases, so oversleeping was no big deal. I simply got a late start.

After washing up and having a slice of buttered toast and glass of orange juice—not having the appetite for anything more—I went into my garage, pressed the button to open the automatic door, and got into my car. I started it, sitting there with my fingers in a death grip around the steering wheel and my head hung while I gathered myself. I had so much going through my mind. Taking a deep breath and letting the air out, I put the car into reverse and eased the gas pedal down. The car rolled backward.

Beep.

The warning sound inside the car jarred me, but not as much as the abrupt stop that rocked the car.

I slammed on the brake pedal and automatically glanced at the display in the dash. The rear camera showed a person in my driveway. I twisted around to see Rachel standing behind my car, clutching the two sides of her unzippered jacket together in the brisk morning air. I threw the car into park, shut off the engine, and jumped out.

“Are you crazy?” I shouted. “I could have run you over!”

“I want to talk to you.”

“We talked yesterday. There’s nothing more to say.”

“What about John and Sophie?”

“There is no John and Sophie.”

“Then where was she last night?”

“With friends from work.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

“She lied.”

“You’re lying.”

One of Rachel’s hands flew to cover her eyes as the sobbing began. I gawked at her. She was crying so hard her body shook. Rachel was a troubled woman who needed a social worker or psychologist, not me. It was because of her that I couldn’t sleep last night. She had put doubts in my mind about my wife, my soulmate for twenty years.

Rachel’s legs gave out and she crumbled to my driveway. I rushed to her and tried to lift her up. She shoved me away and covered her face with both hands, sobbing with her head hung.

“I’m calling 9-1-1,” I said.

Her head shot up and she stared at me through watery eyes. “No! You can’t!”

“You need help.”

Rachel whipped the front of her unzipped jacket apart and yanked her sweater up to the bottom of her white bra. Her body was filled with fresh bruises.

“See what he did!” Rachel shouted. “Don’t call the police.”

“You need help.”

“What I need is to talk to you. Please, won’t you just listen to me?”

Rachel was shivering. I didn’t know if it was from the cold or because she was upset. I dropped to a knee and pulled the front of her sweater down to cover her exposed skin and then grabbed both sides of her jacket and pulled them together. Rachel’s teary blue eyes gazed at me for a moment and then she flung her arms around my neck and held me tight, sobbing into my shoulder.

I stood up, standing Rachel with me since she clung onto my neck the whole time. When I tried to pry her arms off, they tightened around me so I scooped her up in my arms and carried her into the garage. I lowered her to the floor so that I could retrieve my house key from my pocket. Even then, Rachel didn’t let go of my neck. It was as if she was afraid she would fall into a bottomless pit if she did. I finally got my door open and carried Rachel into the house and deposited her on my living room couch. I had intended to sit in the chair next to the couch, but with her attached to my neck I sat beside her.

I waited while she hung onto me and sobbed. I instinctively lifted my arms to wrap around her, to comfort her, but dropped them at my sides. I didn’t know what Rachel’s motives were and surely didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. I was already sorry that we were alone in my house on my couch so close that a sheet of paper could not be slid between our bodies.

We were like that for a while when she got even closer, squishing her body against mine. Then her left arm unhooked from around my neck. I thought she was letting me go, but the other arm remained there. Her left hand traveled down my body and reached my right hip.

I instinctively grabbed her left forearm to stop her hand and shoved her back with my other hand. So hard she stopped crying and flew backward. The only thing that kept her from landing on the arm of the couch and probably banging her head on the table was my tight hold on her forearm. Her other arm broke away from my neck. She held that hand up in front of her terrified face like a shield. She watched me with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Don’t hurt me!” she shouted.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then why did you do that?” She didn’t lower the hand shielding her face.

“Do what?” I asked.

Rachel lifted her left arm that I was still holding tight, so tight my fingers were white. It must have hurt her. I jerked my hand away as if I had touched fire. Rachel kept her other hand up shielding her face.

“You were reaching for my weapon,” I said.

Rachel stared at me blankly so I flipped my suit jacket back, uncovering my belt holster with my pistol in it.

“It was digging into my hip,” Rachel said. “It hurt.”

“I’m sorry, I misunderstood.”

I reached for her with both hands. Rachel’s eyes got even bigger. She gasped, leapt off the couch, and backed up so that she was standing on the other side of the chair. Terrified. I guessed being in an abusive relationship would do that to a woman. Once again, I wanted a social worker to be there. She needed help. But when I had mentioned calling 9-1-1 earlier, she had freaked. So all I did was drop my arms and lean back. Diffuse the situation. That seemed to calm her down somewhat.

“I’ll be right back,” I said and stood up.

I left her standing there—trembling—and walked to the back of the house to the master bedroom. I opened my end table drawer and unclasped my holster from my belt and put it inside the drawer. After shutting the drawer, I took my sport jacket off and laid it on the bed. When I turned around to return to the living room, Rachel was standing in the doorway.

“I told you to wait in the living room,” I said.

“I want to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Because you are imagining things and you need help.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It is. I can call someone to help you, but I need to understand what the problem is.”

“Then listen to me. That’s all I’m asking. Just hear me out.”

Rachel didn’t wait for an answer. She walked to the chair in the bedroom that faced the bed and sat down. She squirmed out of her jacket, leaving it behind her. Then she stared at me expectantly.

I sat on the side of the bed facing her. “Okay, I’m listening,” I said. Anything to calm her down.

Rachel wrung her hands in her lap as she stared into my eyes. I saw the pain she was feeling. She really needed help. I wondered if she was suicidal. Had she lied again? Had she reached for my gun earlier?

Rachel took a shoulder-lifting breath and let the air out. “When I caught John the first time, he denied it. But when I pressed and told him about his car windows being foggy and the car bouncing, he snapped. That was the first time he hit me.”

“Why didn’t—?”

“Let me say what I have to say and then you can talk. But let me tell you what he told me.”

Rachel waited. When I didn’t say anything, she said, “He had a married teacher in high school who seduced him. He said Sophie reminded him of her, especially after he told her to cut her blonde hair shorter like his teacher wore it.”

A knot formed in my gut, but I didn’t say anything. However, I was now paying more attention to what Rachel was saying.