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By Dean R. Koontz

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Henry was one of these. Relatively few women escape them. The ones who do are usually shocked into awareness when they take an outside job out of desperation to prove they are worth something. They find they are good workers, earn pro-motions and praise. Suddenly they see through their Henry and seek a quick divorce or enter into a knock-down, drag-out, teeth and nail, fist and feet fight to bring reality back into their marriage. Or maybe they have an affair and find out they are good in bed. Or finally something happens to show that hubby isn't per-fect either.

He whined from his position by the door. “But what do we do next, Vic? ” “No. ” He said it be-fore he thought. Then he could have bitten off his tongue. ” she asked. He tried to answer, could not. ” “I—” Well, he decided, it was best to get it over with. She would listen, leave. She would not want to stay with a killer. He told her swiftly, though not without emo-tion, conveying to her his own horror at having mur-dered a real, flesh and blood man. She did not go. She said nothing, merely accepted and understood.

Tiny eyes, close-set. No chin. And he was trying to make me think she was more desirable than me. He almost succeeded. He almost really did. He had me so twisted up that—” Still sitting yoga fashion, she lowered her head onto her breasts, balled her fists at her side, and cried softly. He sat the tray aside, brought her to him, stroked her yellow hair, murmured comforting things to her. She had bottled this up, thinking it was over. She had only wanted out of the marriage, time to find herself as a human being.

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