into the night. Luckily, I’d been sleeping in a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, so I wasn’t streaking across their lawn in pajamas or less. As I hurtled toward the house, I didn’t consider how my appearance at their door in the middle of the night would look. My sole focus was Freya’s anguish. I had to save her from what was clearly an awful fate.
The front door was locked, so I ran up onto the deck where double doors connected it to the kitchen and dining room. Residents of the island were lax about security, but Freya and Max were from the city. They would be in the habit of locking their doors to bar intruders. Had they fallen into complacency? Had a burglar gained access through an open door? A murderer or rapist? As I reached for the handle, I saw them through the glass.
Freya and Max were facing each other in the kitchen. She wore a silky pink robe; he was in a pair of boxer shorts. I watched as Freya smacked her husband across the head. Hard.
“You stupid piece of shit!” she growled. “I fucking hate you!”
She smacked him again. And then again. Max just stood there, accepting her blows, flinching only slightly under the assault. Blood trickled from an angry scratch on his left cheek.
“You ruined everything for me!” Freya screeched. She moved backward, picked up a pottery mug off the counter, and hurled it at her husband with a guttural roar. Her arm was impressive, but Max was quick and agile despite his size. He ducked, and the mug missed him by mere inches. Instead, it hit the cupboard behind him and fell to the floor with a crash.
“You’re a stupid fucking animal!” Freya screamed, grabbing a two-pronged barbecue fork. She drew her arm back, and I didn’t know if she was going to rush at Max and stab him or throw the weapon and impale him. Either way, I couldn’t stand there and watch it happen. I turned the door handle and it gave way.
“Stop!” I shrieked, as I burst into the room.
They both turned toward me, and I saw the shock on their faces. It was quickly replaced by fury on Freya’s, something like shame on Max’s.
“What are you doing here?” Freya growled. I had seen her annoyed, irritable, even angry, but this was different. This was unadulterated rage. She was still holding the fork and a frisson of fear ran through me.
“Put the fork down,” I said, keeping my distance.
Freya slammed the utensil down on the counter. “Why are you here?”
Max added, “This is none of your business, Low.”
Suddenly, I realized that I was the intruder, that my help, my interference, was unwanted.
“I—I was working late,” I stammered. “I guess I dozed off. I heard screaming. I came to help.”
“Get out, you psycho.” Freya’s voice was cold.
I looked at Max.
“Go home,” he said softly.
As I slinked across the deck and down the stairs, I heard Freya’s voice. “And don’t come back!”
She didn’t mean it, I told myself. She was angry and overwrought and would regret her words in the morning. What had Max done to warrant her fury? This had to be about the baby. Maybe he was making her keep it? Or making her get rid of it? It had to be something really bad to make her want to fork him like a steak.
When I reached the studio, I grabbed my keys and hurried to my truck. Climbing in, my fingers fumbled with the ignition, my key stabbing blindly in the darkened cab. My breath was coming rapid and shallow. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, on the precipice of a full-blown panic attack. I was in no state to drive, but I had to leave. I had to put distance between myself and the scene at the luxurious home.
As I drove the dark and deserted road up the island, I breathed deeply through my nose, trying to calm myself. Tomorrow, Freya would text me to explain. It was a lovers’ quarrel heightened by the unfortunate pregnancy news. The hormones had made her crazy; she wouldn’t really have hurt Max. She’d thank me for diffusing the situation, apologize for her harsh words, beg me to come back to the studio. She’d promise to have an abortion as soon as possible and then things would go back to normal.
Even after what I had seen, I was still desperate to be a part of their lives.
23
When I got home,