"I guess," she said, unconvinced. "I think you're wrong about Theo, but as I said, I don't want to fight over this."

All day at work I tossed the situation around. I was very unproductive filling out my reports. I could even see, from Becca's point of view, how my feelings seemed unfounded. But the more I rehashed the previous day, the more I was sure that Theodore was a shady individual. I knew what I'd seen. Something untold already happened or was about to. I decided to order, and place a few small surveillance cameras in our home.

Then it dawned on me that I didn't much care if they conversed outdoors, and since the bookshelf in our living room provided a side view of our front entrance and a straight-on view of our kitchen slider, I only needed one device. I went online and found one that was motion activated, and would upload to the cloud, so I could view the recordings anywhere.

Becca and I were back to normal by the week's end. We made love on Saturday night and it was a scorcher. After our first interlude, Becca used all her tricks to get me revved up for a second, and a third round. We were at it for nearly two hours.

Four days later, and only a day after I'd placed the camera into the binding of one of my least favorite books, I came home to a card addressed to me and a clean, folded kitchen towel. Despite my curiosity, I held off until after dinner to read it. Becca said nothing, although it was obvious that she had set it in the bowl by our front door, she also seemed amused.

She was even more so after we watched TV together and I announced I was heading to bed. I waited until Becca was asleep and then went into our spare room, which doubled as my office, to watch the first day's recording.

It showed who I supposed was Theodore talking to my wife at the doorway, for five minutes and ten seconds. I never saw him because he didn't enter our home.

That was a relief. Becca seemed to be considering where to put the card for a minute after he left, and then set it where I'd found it.

The card itself had only my first name on the front and was handwritten.

Marshall,

Please accept my humble apologies for crossing any neighborly lines. While not a viable excuse, I am lonely and alone, so occasionally my strong need to interact with another person, has caused a slight lapse in my judgment. I shouldn't have violated your inner sanctum - your home - without an invitation from the man of the house. I did eagerly accept Rebecca's, but only for conversation, and nothing else. That said, I completely understand your concerns and your wishes. Besides having age and wisdom on my side, I understand them because I was married to a woman long ago who put herself into suspect situations until eventually, she was unfaithful to me. You see, I've lived for a time with deception, constant worry, and mistrust. I don't wish those feelings on anyone. As an outsider, I can see Rebecca as an honest person with a wonderful heart - a heart that completely belongs to you, Marshall, if I read her correctly. Your message was received loud and clear and I have every intention of respecting your wishes. It is my hope that we can still be good, friendly neighbors when given the chance to interact.

Sincerely,

Theodore Rasmussen.

And that was that.

Becca was pleased that I accepted Theodore's apology. Of course, she had no idea of my level of trust but verify. I was even suspicious because Becca had used the exact phrase that Theodore put in his note: lonely and alone.

The camera provided a detailed account of my wife coming and going. Everything checked out. She'd leave and return with groceries in roughly the time she would normally take to complete that task. Her routine remained the same too. She'd visit her sister on Tuesday late morning. Shopping on Friday afternoon.

Errands on Monday midday and I guessed a visit to her favorite coffee kiosk. She always came home with one of their logoed cups. Those all happened around her part-time job, and she wore a uniform for that. All the other times Becca left, she returned in a timely manner.

After two months, I checked the recordings only once per week. That lessened to twice per month. Two months further down the road, Becca and I had another discussion about starting a family. We agreed to start trying right away. Yet another two months and Rebecca jumped into my arms as I came through our door, shouting excitedly, "I'm pregnant! I'm pregnant!"

It was a very busy and happy time for us. Both my parents and her dad lived out of state but were making plans to be there when the baby was born. I was giddy when we learned the baby was a girl. Unlike a lot of dads, I'd always dreamed of having a daughter. We did all the things that young new parents do, I supposed. We read all the self-help books and articles. I moved my office, with a much smaller desk, to a corner of our master bedroom, and then painted and decorated the new nursery.

In Becca's seventh month, on a Wednesday, she called me on my cell at about ten-thirty in the morning, crying hysterically. I rushed home thinking something was wrong with her or the baby, or both. When I pulled onto our street, there was an ambulance and a police car. My heart almost stopped, until I realized that both were parked in Theodore's driveway.

From what police found, it was likely that the old guy's heart simply quit while he was pulling weeds in his backyard. My wife was visibly shaken for several days. I could understand to a point.

I comforted my wife the best I could. She was broken up about his death, which renewed some of my old feelings and suspicions. I never said anything about that week, when I thought our marriage was in real trouble. My sister, Amy, drove the one hundred-twenty miles to stay with us for a week, helping to soothe Becca when I was working, and keep her stress level down. Amy agreed to go to the funeral with Becca and me, before heading home.

Very few people attended Theodore's service. From all the incredible tales my wife had alluded to, I found it odd. We did meet Margaret Bachman, Rasmussen's younger sister there, and spoke our condolences to her for about fifteen minutes. She seemed very interested in how we knew her brother. I didn't think it necessary to talk about my feelings for Theodore with her, at his own funeral. After the service, Becca said she wanted to go to the wake with Margaret. That too, was odd, considering only four people remained at the end. I told my wife that I wasn't comfortable since we didn't know him that well. She looked at me like I was crazy.

"You didn't, Marsh," she carefully reminded me, "but I did. It's okay, why don't you go home with Amy, and I'll call you when I'm ready to come home."

The cemetery and Margaret's home were thirty-five miles from our town. That request was also strange, but I didn't push it. My wife was in a fragile state, and I didn't want to risk her health or the baby's. I did tell Amy the story of Theodore and the outcome. She listened intently, but by the time we arrived home, I realized she'd asked very few questions. Margaret ended up driving my wife home, saying she wanted to see her brother's home one last time.

Six weeks after the funeral, Becca and I were on our way to the hospital. Her water broke while taking her morning shower, and I was glad I hadn't left for work yet. Nine hours later, Trinity, our daughter was born. She was two weeks early, but was very healthy, including being within normal weight ranges.

I'd been given a week off including Saturday and Sunday on the tail-end so I was home with Becca and Trinity for ten days. I was on cloud nine those days and mesmerized by the little life before me.

One of the happiest experiences of my life was when she smiled at me for the first time. It made me cry, and then Becca told me her smile was likely due to gas.

My life had never been in such a state of euphoria as it was for the three months after our daughter's birth, but that kind of happiness is known not to last.

Three months to the day of Trinity's birth, I received a FedEx package at work. It was nearly three-thirty, and I got off at four.

Inside, there was a smaller FedEx envelope and a handwritten message.

Wait for the courier before opening. To what courier the note referred, I did not know. At least for fifteen minutes, I didn't. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a co-worker directing a well-dressed woman toward my semi-private office. It was semi-private because it was fully open into the office, but was an oversized cubicle. It wasn't until the woman spoke my name, that I recognized her as Margaret Bachman.

"Margaret... hello," I said.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She ignored my question.

"Marshall." It wasn't a greeting - it was a statement. "I see you've received the package?"

I simply nodded; gobsmacked at how her visit might be related.

She sat in the chair across from my desk. "Marshall," she began sadly and seriously. "You and I have a lot to discuss. None of it is pretty, and I'm afraid it isn't only going to hurt you, but test the very limits of your understanding. I can't overstate that. I'll go over everything and answer all your questions honestly, but we can't do it here at your place of work. I have a suite at the Hilton, just down the road. Can you please come with me there?"

I sat, stunned. Momentarily, I wondered if she was just as weird as her brother. But he was dead. She had a sad look about her as if to exclaim just how serious she was concerning the package.

There was another expression there, too. It was pity.

Whatever she knew, and wanted me to know, she felt a great deal of pity for me. I shivered involuntarily.

"Alright," I said, mostly running on... something. "Let me shut down my computer and grab my coat."

We walked towards the exit together. It felt like all eyes were on me, although that wasn't likely. "Oh," I said, thinking about my family, "I need to call Becca and let her know I'll be late and... oh my God! Is Becca alright?"

"She's fine, and she already knows," Dr. Bachman interrupted. "I took the liberty."

What the fuck was going on? I clearly remember thinking. "What the hell is this Ms. Bachman? I'm not going anywhere with you until you explain."

Margaret gave a heavy sigh. "Alright, Marshall," she said. "This is about my brother. It's about what kind of man he is... was, and how that ties to you and your wife. I'm here in a professional sense, but also because he and his attorney dragged me into it. That's all I can tell you right now. I took the liberty of explaining to Rebecca because I didn't want her to worry about you."

I agreed to go with her, against my better judgment. I have to admit my curiosity was through the roof, due to my hatred of Theodore. I went to get in my car, and she immediately directed me to hers.

"I'll bring you back." She stated.

In the suite, I noticed a kitchenette, and a sitting room in the middle, with two large bedrooms on either side. The sitting area seemed to have been arranged. There was a pitcher of water on the glass coffee table, along with a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch, and a bottle of Maker's Mark, with several glasses.

Sitting off to the left side of the large plush sofa was a small waste basket. Next to the water were two white hand towels from the bathroom.

"Alright, Margaret," I told her. "Let's get to it, shall we?"

She took a seat across from me, with the package still in her hand. "Marshall," she began, "this is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm going to tell you my brother's background first, so the things I explain later make more sense. In my profession, I'd usually ask my patient to let me finish and then pose any questions. But this is going to be as hard for me to say, as it will be for you to hear. I'm probably not going to articulate as well as I usually do, therefore, If you have questions while I'm explaining, please interrupt me. I'd rather you asked and I answered, than for you to forget something important. You okay with that so far?"

I nodded. My curiosity quickly turned to anxiety. I poured a glass of water and sipped it to calm myself down. "What exactly is your profession Ms. Bachman?"

"I'm a psychologist," she replied. "That was my career for thirty-seven years." Margaret took a deep breath.

"My brother," she said, "had a storied life. He went to law school, although he never took the Bar. He was a commercial small aircraft pilot for a dozen or so years.

At an early age, he developed a fancy for magic, and that led him to study a craft that would end up being his job until he was forced to retire."

She was clearly shaken; I guessed knowing what was to come. I waved my open hand for her to continue.

"Ted went on to be a professional entertainer with the cruise lines. He did nightly shows for the passengers, as a hypnotist and ventriloquist, and he was quite good. That gig lasted fourteen years until he was forced to resign, under a cloud of suspicion.

Not many know the story, but I do. My brother was using his stage show to plant suggestions with the female passengers for sex."

She paused again, so I took the opportunity. "Do you mean he hypnotized them and then raped them?" I asked.

"Not exactly," she went on.

"He was very careful until he wasn't. Passengers were to volunteer for his show prior to the evening. Since one of the questions asked for the passengers' cabin numbers, he could surveil them ahead of time, during the day. He had to ensure they fit a certain criteria. One of those was that the female participant was almost always married."

"So he was a predator," I stated.

"Not quite," she countered. "Not in psychological terms. "He was a fetishist. You'll understand that more in a bit. Anyway, in his fourteenth year with the cruise lines, he made a mistake. A couple he hypnotized were married; a footballer and his wife. The athlete thought it was all fun and games, so he went along with the show, even though he was not affected by the hypnosis. Later when Ted came to their room to do the deed, the husband continued going along, thinking some aspect of the game would be revealed. That was until my brother used his trigger to put the wife back under, and ordered her to remove her clothing. He barely got out of the room before the husband could assault him, but the damage was done. The athlete filed a complaint with the ship's captain, and my brother was quarantined to his cabin until they could drop him at the next port."

Some of the dots were connecting and I didn't like where this was going. Then something Margaret had just said crossed my mind. "You sound like you're sticking up for your brother," I accused. "Do you condone what he did?"

"No," she said unequivocally. "I'm trying to describe things in a non-partisan way. There's a reason for that. Not much later, Ted was back in the states, and he moved into a house on Elm Street, in your wife's old neighborhood."

Elm was where my wife grew up in her parent's home. Had she known Theodore since then and not told me? My brain was scrambling.

"Get to it," I half-yelled.

"Ted lived down the street from Rebecca for three years. He began lusting after her almost immediately. But Rebecca was only sixteen, so he kept his obsession to himself, having narrowly escaped real trouble with the cruise line and the well-known football star.

Still, he laid the groundwork, talking kindly to her in passing and asking her specific questions. At that age, your wife was an easy mark. His obsession manifested when Rebecca turned eighteen. For the better part of a year, Ted used his mind-control techniques on your wife and a neighborhood friend of hers."

I was about to be sick and suddenly realized what the wastebasket was there for. Margaret understood too, and quickly stated, "He didn't have sex with her."

Quickly, I was able to reject the bile in my throat but held on to the basket. "You said for the better part of the year, he did stuff to her.

What stuff?"

"Another fetish of his was..." she paused, "feet." She paused even longer, looking extremely uncomfortable. I could see clearly that she didn't want to be telling me this.

"He would put the girls under with a suggestion," she went on painfully. "Then he'd have them remove their shoes, while he... masturbated on them - - on their feet."

I threw up immediately. All I could think of was Becca lying to me, and how many times she'd allowed that bastard to do it before the day I caught them. I started to get myself under control. I hadn't even noticed Margaret leave the room until she came back with a warm, wet towel to go with the dry ones on the table.

"I caught them," I told her.

"One day I came home when he must have just... finished. I didn't know what I walked into, but I knew it was something. We had it out. I forbade him to come into our home. I put a camera in our living room to make sure she didn't let him in."

The look on Margaret's face wasn't one of surprise or understanding. It was pure pity and revulsion.

"What the fuck is this?" I screamed. "Why are we here and why are you telling me all of this? How did you find out?"

"You'll know the answer to that," she replied, "in just a few minutes. In short, I'm here for you. To help you deal with what my brother has done."

She took a sip of water.

She was clearly shaken, knowing what was to come. "Ted hired a separate attorney for this. It wasn't part of his estate. The lawyer, very concerned about the nature of the request, had Ted sign all sorts of paperwork, protecting him from any criminality in the issuance of this directive. I was sent a letter from the attorney, outlining my brother's strange request.

There was also a letter from my brother.

"He stated in that letter, that he needed my professional help. He explained what a loathsome creature he'd become in his obsession.

Said that he never intended to hurt anyone. A life without consequences, he called it.

Until he got caught on that ship. He fled, and by chance, ended up on Rebecca's street. He claimed to fall in love with her. In my line of work, I know that's not true, but it was his twisted reality. He got caught with Rebecca and her friend, at the friend's house, by an older sister. At the time, the city prosecutor was only looking to charge lewd behavior, with the pressure applied by the girlfriend's family. So my brother took a deal to mandatory counseling and to leave the state. That was very wrong on the prosecutors' part, in my opinion. That's because he found ways to keep track of Rebecca on social media. In the letter, he tells how much he hated you for taking the 'love of his life.' He was extremely jealous of you."

"Okay," I said, really unsure what to say. "You didn't answer my question."

"The answer comes from his own lips." She answered, and then she stood and put the DVD into the player and started it. As she returned to her chair, she told me, "You aren't going to like any of this."

The screen came to life.

There was Theodore, sitting at a desk, I presumed in his home. He was looking and speaking into a camera positioned on the desk, possibly from a laptop.

"Hello, Marshall," he began.

He looked confident, cocky almost.

"By now, my sister has probably given you a little background." He looked away momentarily, then back. "I want to apologize in my own words to you Margaret, for putting you through this. I'm sure you read and understood my letter, but I want you to see my face, and hear me say it."

Theodore seemed shaken, but he rallied. "Marshall, we have a lot to discuss," he said, staring into the camera. "So much so, that I've decided to do this in a few parts. I won't say how many. You'll need time to digest, and I don't want you to miss a thing.

"Let's get started, then," he continued. "You see, I've loved your wife, Rebecca, since the very first time I'd seen her. Your wife - it pains me, even now, to say the words. I've always felt she was mine, and that you stole her from me, even though you never knew about that. In fairness, neither did she. Watch carefully. This was our first time, just days after her eighteenth birthday."

The screen switched to what I knew to be Becca's childhood living room. My beautiful wife, sat on the sofa, her feet up on the oversized ottoman, that had been covered by a bath towel. Theodore stood directly in front of her, removing her flip-flops. Rebecca seemed to be staring at some point across the room, over Theodore's left shoulder, her eyes glazed over, and with an emotionless, empty expression. He walked towards the camera, taking it with him, back towards the couch. The way he held it, told me it was a phone.

The bastard held the camera in one hand, while he slowly began rubbing her feet with the other.

As he touched them - the toes, the soles, and the heels - his breathing increased and became heavy. Theodore handled them as an archaeologist might handle an ancient artifact. He worshipped them. Becca never moved. He stood up straight and as he readjusted the camera, his old slimy cock, wrapped in his free hand, came into view, just inches from my wife's feet.

All the time he whacked himself, I was dry-heaving. I knew what I was looking at. For reasons unbeknownst, I felt not even the slightest satisfaction that she was unaware of what was happening. For a man his age, he certainly didn't last long.

I supposed that if this was their... the first time, he could have been overly excited.

Everything changed for me when the first spurt of yellowish, snot-like sperm landed on Becca's foot. I saw the second land on her ankle and leg as I jettisoned off the sofa, basket in hand, and headed toward the bathroom. I can confirm that my stomach still had something to reject. After several minutes, and trying to catch my breath, I felt a presence. Margaret was in the doorway, showing how sorry she was for me. She busied herself, wetting a washcloth, and putting it in my hand.

Margaret then, in sympathy, I supposed, ran a few fingers lightly through my hair.

"Come on, Marshall," she said kindly, "let's go for a walk and get some fresh air."

She was right at that point.

I needed to get out of that room.

As we walked, Margaret talked to me about my life and anything except what we were both there for. I figured her to be a very good psychologist. We ended up two blocks from the hotel, at a coffee kiosk. After our drinks were ready, she looked at me with a slight tilt of her head towards where we'd come from.

"Let's finish this, if you think you can," she half asked, half told me. "Then we can talk about it, or whatever you want to talk about."

The walk back was almost in complete silence, and she wisely allowed that. My emotions and my thoughts were all over the place, and I had to get myself under control for what I knew was still ahead.

Margaret must have forwarded the DVD past the horrific images that sent me to the toilet. I saw Theodore's fucking face, frozen on pause there, sitting behind his desk. My companion sat watching me and waiting, the remote in her hand. Finally, I nodded, and she pressed 'resume.'

"I hope you're okay, Marshall," the smug prick said, looking right at me. "That was probably rough to watch.

At least now, you know how I felt every time I saw the two of you holding hands, giving each other a quick kiss while doing yard work, all her little affectionate looks that she gave you.

Even the pain I felt as I watched shadows through the drapes in your bedroom at night - and then seeing the lights go out - imagining what you were doing to my princess."

I wanted to kill that fucker. I wanted to go to the cemetery, dig up his grave, and piss on his bones. In my temporary insanity, I even saw Margaret for a few, short milliseconds, as the only way to get even with him, but quickly pushed that aside.

"But then," he said as the anger came across his face, "you had to interfere. I'm sure my sister explained that I kept Rebecca on the radar, and my moving to your new neighborhood was no accident. You just had to come home early and interrupt things. I couldn't let you do that. Couldn't let you keep me from her. I worried that you might decide to surveil your own wife, and me. I had a simple solution for that, one I'd used on the cruise lines many times."

The screen went to a video of Theodore coming out of his front door and walking towards my house, as Becca came from our door and met him in the street. She had that same blank look on her face.

"Listen carefully, Rebecca," he told her slowly. "Only one teaspoon of this in your lasagna." He handed her a small vial. "Do you understand, love?" he continued. "Repeat my instructions: one teaspoon in the lasagna you're preparing, just one..." his voice trailed off.

My Becca sounded robotic in her response. "Just one teaspoon." She stated.

"Put the vial in your purse, after you finish," He added. "Repeat it to me. Where will you put the vial?"

"In my purse." She exclaimed in the same tone.

The scene ended. Theodore was back. "Marshall, listen to me," his voice came out of the TV, deeper somehow. "Your wife didn't try to drug or poison you. I forced her to give you a little concoction I'd used many times and perfected over the years. I needed you debilitated; flaccid, if you will, so I could plie you with suggestions. And before you wonder, you were conscious and responsive when I placed them in your mind, although slightly disoriented.

"You needed to learn," he sat back in his chair and a wild expression came over him. "You weren't going to give Rebecca an ultimatum like that - you or me. I never took anything from you. I was willing to share a remarkable woman. I'd never had her in the biblical sense. I started to realize that perhaps, you didn't deserve her. In any event, you had to pay for your insolence. You weren't to be allowed to try and 'best' a man like me. My subconscious suggestion to you was not to look at any recordings beyond five in the afternoon."

The video changed scenes again. At first, I had no idea what I was looking at. The hairy opening was zoomed in on, and it took several movements of the camera or phone before I understood.

It was me. I wore a mustache, and the corners of my mouth were being pulled open by... feet. Becca's big toes were inside my mouth and the corners of my lips were between them and her second toe, being pulled slightly to keep my mouth wide open. I could hear Theodore mumbling something in the background, but I was unable to make out the words. Less than thirty seconds into this video, his old bare cock came into the frame. It looked even more grotesque up close. Again he was jacking himself off, and quickly, before I could even think to look away, his ancient sperm flew out, coating the inside of my mouth and Becca's toes.

There was nothing left to throw up, except the few ounces of coffee that I'd been sipping. That still didn't stop the reaction. The wastebasket was magically there again, even though I'd left it in the bathroom earlier. Margaret paused the video again. Once I'd collected myself, Margaret looked at me sadly, her shared pain evident.

"That's most of it, Marshall," she said somberly. "No more sex. If you can go on, let's finish listening, and then we can talk."

I was queasy. I was angry beyond my comprehension. The last thing I wanted to do was talk. I had murder on my mind, but there wasn't anyone to kill. I resigned and steadied myself. Without any response, I simply waved toward the clicker.

The screen motion started. "Marshall, you still with us?" His smirking, smarmy smile almost made me throw the water pitcher through the TV.

"I hope Margaret is still with you." The smile dissipated. "You need to understand, I was very angry. I've been... very angry. You happened to catch the brunt of my anger. I've spared you the other videos I took." He paused for purpose. "Yes, there were other times; two to be exact. Once on your face, and after realizing what it entailed to clean you up afterward, the last time was in your mouth, which I had you swallow.

"I'm telling you now," he went on, "I'm truly sorry for all of it. You didn't deserve it, in hindsight, but understand that I was in a rage.

As my sister now knows, I was, until the end, a twisted, vile old man. What I did to my sweet Rebecca was even worse.

But you need some time to reflect and get your head on straight."

The video abruptly ended. Margaret looked at me. The pitiful expression was back, even as she tried to hide it.

"Tell me what you're feeling right now, Marshall." She'd gone straight into therapy mode.

"Fuck you! That's how I feel!" I screamed. "Did you watch this before coming to see me, you bitch?"

Margaret seemed unaffected by my outburst. "Yes, I did." She stated matter-of-factly. "And not of my own volition. When I was paid a visit by Ted's attorney, he explained what was on the DVD. He told me that part of his services was to see me and ask me - beg me, if need be - to be the one to present it to you. He told me that Ted thought highly of the way I'd conducted my practice, and the other reason was that he wanted to minimize exposure."

"Minimize fucking exposure?" I was still yelling. "He's fucking dead! Why should he care about exposure?"

"Not for him," she said. "For Rebecca, and possibly for you. He didn't want either of you to have to deal with ridicule if this ever got out into the public.

"Marshall, look at me," she said, noticing she was losing me to my dark thoughts. "This isn't the end of it, I'm afraid. From what the attorney told me, one more video will be delivered tomorrow.

Neither he nor I know what it contains. I'm both skeptical and hopeful. I..." I cut her off.

"Hopeful?" I replied. "What the hell is wrong with you? Your brother is... was a psychopath. You've watched this now, what, twice or more? You heard what he said. It gets worse. He's done something worse to her, the bastard."

"I'm hopeful," she explained, "because I know my brother. He's showing remorse, even though it doesn't feel that way to you.

He went to his grave understanding what his actions have caused. Whatever he's done, he's being somewhat considerate in admitting it. He's taken some steps to mitigate the damage.

That's very unlike him."

"He should have been in prison," I reminded her, "after he got caught in a sexual act with my wife and her friend." I suddenly had another thought.

"I need to get out of here." I suddenly exclaimed and stood. "I need to get to my wife. I have to talk to my wife about all of this."

The pathetic look was back.

"Sit down, Marshall," Margaret ordered softly. "Rebecca isn't home. I've already spoken to her. She knows enough of what Ted has done, and she knows I'm with you now to help you deal with the... shock."

"What the fuck is this?" I moved towards her, and she recoiled.

"Exactly what it looks like," she said. "What I just said. I had to talk to her first. I had to for a few reasons. The first was to warn her of the devastation my brother was about to heap on both of you.

The second was to try and gain an understanding of how much of this she already knew. In either case, I needed to instill a distance between the two of you for a day or two. She and the baby are staying with your sister"

"That's what I'm asking you, Margaret," I reiterated, "Who exactly are you, or that lawyer, to go this far? To decide what's best for us? For all I know, you're only trying to protect a dead family member."

"We're professionals, Marshall," was her simple answer. "My brother's attorney viewed this DVD, before delivering it. He also alerted authorities. That was for his protection, Rebecca's, and yours. This situation is... extreme. Both you and Rebecca are going to need a lot of help - probably a year of intensive therapy, if not longer. I asked her to go to your sister's for a few days, because the two of you trying to work this out, or even talk about it on your own, is not going to be productive right now. And I don't know how the second part of my brother's message is going to hit us, because it's attorney-client privilege.

"What I want to do now," she kept talking, seeing I was out of objections, "is to talk about today.

I'm not the therapist you've chosen, and as you made clear, you may not trust me under the circumstances, but I'm what you have to work with, within the parameters of how Ted set this up. I have a suite so that you have somewhere to sleep when we're both talked out."

"No way!" I was back to an elevated tone. "I'm not spending the night here. I need to go home. I need to get drunk and think. I need to check those damned tapes from my security system."

That caused Margaret surprise. "What security system?" she asked.

"Okay, it's not a system," I admitted. "I put a single camera in the living room to make sure that Becca held to her promise, not to allow him into our home. It sounded like he... or maybe both of them knew about it. You heard what he said about the time. I'd checked every day, up to the day he died."

"Okay, Marshall," she added, "try and be calm for a moment. What we know so far is that my brother has been sexually abusing your wife since she was eighteen." She saw the confused look on my face. "Yes, it's sexual abuse, whether it's a foot or... a mouth." She let me digest that statement.

"His actions towards you were an act of vengeance. If he were alive, that would bring additional prison time. It falls under our state's hate crime statutes. That's about all we can deal with tonight. We need to order some food, and I'll even go against my better judgment here, and say one bottle of wine. Then I need to help you get through a few of the stages of grief because we're not sure what tomorrow will bring, or what other revelations he's going to disclose."

Her assertions proved correct, of course. We ate really bad Chinese from a local place that delivered.

She had a half glass of the bottle of wine, although I'm positive that she could have easily drunk the entire bottle.

As it turned out, I didn't finish it off until we were finished talking, because I needed the extra help falling asleep.

A few interesting things came to light during our conversation, and they made me question everything I thought I knew about my wife.

"I don't understand something," I told her right after a lull in our talk. "Becca had to know who Theodore was, after being caught in her friend's house. That means she knew who he was when he moved into our neighborhood."

"That's true," she replied. "And one of the reasons I sent her off to your sisters' place. The mind is a very strange thing. He could have influenced her, all during that time.

Then again, she may have hidden it from you for any number of reasons." Margaret became serious in her silence then.

"That is why we need to take this slow, Marshall," she said. "Wild accusations, either way, could cause a rift between the two of you that cannot be repaired. My brother has already done enough of that for everyone involved. I'm here for you, more than Rebecca, and I'm not taking her side. I did not share what was in that video with her, either. In fact, I was quite vague. That was for your benefit. As you two move forward, you're going to have to be able to trust Rebecca again - to rebuild trust."

I thought I understood what Margaret was saying. In a way, I was already blaming Becca for some of what had happened. That wasn't fair, I knew, at least until I could view our home security tapes and had a chance to hear her out. Then I asked Margaret to come to my home with me, so I could view the tapes

"I don't think tonight is a good idea," she responded hastily. "You need sleep. You need time. I'll be happy to go with you in the morning."

"I have to work in the morning," I said, shrugging.

"No," she told me. "I spoke to your boss today. Without going into detail, I explained who I was and that you and your wife were maliciously being put through mental stress, and that you'd need at least the rest of the week to work through it. I explained you would be useless in your job. He gave you these next three days, and asked that if you couldn't return next Monday, to make sure and called in early."

"Why would you do that?" I asked, still not fully trusting her.

"Because you needed me to," she answered. "You wouldn't have thought to do it. We have three days and the weekend to sort through all of this."

I slept restlessly. I thought about Becca, and I was sad. I wanted so badly to be with her, right then, but I also thought about a woman, my woman, who could easily have simply hidden these things from me. I raged about Theodore as I tossed and turned. God, I wished he was still alive so I could strangle the life out of him. I tried to think about how I could make those who survived the bastard pay for his crimes. The hardest part, as Margaret had cautiously alluded to, was that he'd planned and connived and executed in such a way that Rebecca and I had little recourse.

Margaret was indeed, good at her job. She realized as soon as I entered the kitchenette that morning that I was processing things, and she gave me plenty of space. I saw her texting and reading her phone while she busied herself making me eggs and toast.

"Does that have to do with me?" I asked in between bites.

"It has to do with your wife," she simply replied. "Amy has been letting me know how she is weathering things. She's very worried about you, of course. Both of them are. She also wants to speak to you as soon as possible, to explain."

"What does she know, anyway?" I asked.

"That Ted has admitted hurting both of you, from the grave, and that he's reaching out to you, not her, about his confession. And that you will need time."

After a shower, Margaret accompanied me home. I felt stupid, having only ever checked the recordings when I wasn't home, during the daytime. Margaret reassured me. She said that her brother probably would have considered my wanting to verify that he and Rebecca weren't seeing each other behind my back.

She was most interested in the powder he'd given my wife and how it had been administered. In Theodore's message, he said it was in the lasagna, so I assumed, but Margaret, knowing he was a master of deception wanted to see it with her own eyes.

The videos that my system had made were even worse than what that fucker had heaped onto me the previous day. Becca indeed, used the powder four times. Each time she made my favorite dish, and that was about once every three to four weeks. At least Becca looked like she may have been a bit catatonic when she did it. After each of those meals, I'd go to our sofa, and then I'd dose off, usually thirty to forty minutes after finishing dinner.

The phone would then ring - these tapes had no sound - and Margaret and I guessed it was her brother because all emotion drained from my wife's face and she'd simply go to our front door and open it, waiting for the prick to come in.

At all times, the two of them were able to rouse me, and get me upstairs or down the hall to the guest room.

The camera wouldn't give that away. Those were the only times he was ever in our home.

Margaret took me to lunch, even though I didn't think I could eat. We went to a deli near her hotel, and she ordered me a grilled cheese and a cup of tomato soup.

"How are you feeling about Rebecca today," she nonchalantly asked.

"I miss her," I answered honestly. "I've only not spent the night with her four nights before last; both were when I had to go to training in Chicago."

"And what are your feelings versus your suspicions towards her," she continued prodding. "Are you angry, and has that grown or subsided since yesterday?"

"I'm not there yet," I said.

"I'm worried about what else your brother has planned. It's the way my mind works, I guess. I compartmentalize very effectively. It's what makes me good at my current job. I do have some anger toward myself, though. Why didn't I see what he was doing? Why wasn't I able to protect the woman I love? When he made me swallow his disgusting fluids, did I gag?"

That's not anger, Marshall," she quickly replied. "That's grief mixed with feelings of inadequacy. When you start to feel those feelings, I want you to do me a favor. Can you do that?"

"What?" I asked her, not especially interested.

"When you feel like that, I want you to think about how many couples he did similar things to on a cruise ship over fourteen years before he was finally caught. That's all. Just to provide some perspective on your situation. It won't change his heinous actions or your own guilt about stopping him.

But over time, it will help you realize where to draw the lines of being a victim. That's what you are, Marshall: a victim, plain and simple."

I thought about that, just a little, as we walked back to Margaret's suite. A man in an expensive suit was waiting in the lobby, and when he saw us he rose and walked in our direction.

"Mr. Provost," Margaret greeted him, obviously knowing the man. "Is that what I think it is?"

He nodded slightly, turning his attention to me. "Mr. Stevens," he said, joylessly, "I wanted to look you in the eye, and express my humble apologies. I usually enjoy my work, but there are times, like these when I question humanity."

I didn't know what to say, and he seemed quite sincere, so I just nodded. He turned towards Margaret.

"I've consulted others in my firm, and some close colleagues," he began. "The specific instructions from my client were three videos, three days, one day apart. We cannot see any good reason to prolong this considering the level of pain it's intended to inflict. I'm giving you both of these last two now. One day isn't going to make any difference, and my client is deceased. I have no knowledge of the specific content, only a summary."

He turned to me again. "Any future contact between us, Mr. Stevens, will need to be done through an attorney of your choosing. Please do not reach out to me directly." He waited for me to respond, and when I did, he turned and walked away.

Margaret looked at me apprehensively.

"Let's get this over with," I said.

We sat again, in the living room of Margaret's suite - all the same, necessary implements surrounding me.

I was hoping I could keep the soup and sandwich down, but I didn't hold out much hope of that.

I took a long sip of the whiskey. It burned, but also felt good going down. Margaret pushed the clicker after inserting the DVD.

"Hello again, Marshall," he said. "I'm no longer among the living, but I sure hope you're still alive. I promise, just a little more shock and awe, and then we'll end with some good news."

The bastard thought I might commit suicide. Fat chance of that.

"Where to start?" he continued. "So by now, you understand my level of contempt for you. It wasn't until I knew I was terminal that I began to have second thoughts... no, not second, but other thoughts. I started to feel guilty, in the wake of my humanity. I felt guilt for the first time, about my actions towards you and all the others. It was... confusing and... difficult.

"Oh, well, that's a story for another time. See, I was so damned mad at you - jealous too. I knew I had the ability to cause further damage, but at the same time, I didn't want my Rebecca to share in your pain. That's when it hit me. I went and had a few medical tests done. Imagine my surprise... well, here let me show you."

The screen changed. Becca was in a strange house - probably his house. She was again just staring at the ceiling. She was staring at the ceiling because she was on her back, lying on his wooden dining table. She was nude from the waist down, including her feet. He was holding one in his hand, ghoulishly massaging it, as he stroked himself. This time, the camera wasn't in his hand, but it was close enough for him to capture the vile details. My wife was touching herself too. Not in any way I'd ever seen her do to herself. She was methodically rubbing her clitoris with one forefinger, with no extra effort or emotion.

Theodore was staring at her foot as he rubbed it. After a few minutes of watching the torture, Theodore moved forward, pushing the head of his cock into my wife, and I could tell he was coming inside her. She didn't seem to care one way or the other. His seventy-year-old cock was at that moment, the hardest it was going to get, even with a pill, and he used the opportunity to press further into her. The scene ended quickly. Theo's smirking mug replaced the scene that was destined to end my marriage.

"You see, Marshall," he said, smiling, "Those tests confirmed that I was still fertile. Fruitful. Potent. Certainly not like I once was, but still, even with a one in twelve chance I had to try. My sperm count was low, and my swimmers were, how shall we say, lazy. At least I could compete with you for my love, and wouldn't hurt her in the process. You'll understand that later.

"In case you're wondering," he kept at it. "I'd put Rebecca under almost every day, asking her if she made love to her husband the night before. When she answered in the affirmative, I gave her a morning-after pill, just to put us on even footing. Even footing..." he laughed a diabolical laugh out loud.

"Yes, I suppose it's time to put all my cards on the table." His laugh dissipated, as he became visibly uncomfortable. "Yes, I have a foot fetish. Yes, I have an anal fetish, but I would never do that to my Rebecca."

Something about him saying 'my' Rebecca, tipped me over the edge. I threw the bottle of whiskey at the TV and it exploded in sparks, and glass flew in every direction. Margaret flinched but said not a word. When my rage subsided, I looked at her. "I... I'm sorry." That's all I could say.

"I know," she nodded and said thoughtfully. "Come 'on, let's get some air." She reached for my hand; not something I expected her to do for a man who'd just lost it like that.

Together, we walked two blocks and stopped in a park I knew of, but had never spent time in. We both sat on a picnic table looking over the lake. Okay, it was a pond, not a lake, but it was still serene, and it was helping me to calm down.

My wife, after everything else, had likely been impregnated by a monster. I couldn't get the images of her playing with herself, in some way, preparing for him - preparing to accept his rotten seed. Margaret seemed to understand my dilemma.

"Are you thinking about him, or her?" she asked quietly.

"I don't understand how she could let... I don't... I can't. I mean she let him do that to her." I stumbled for the words.

"No, I don't see it like that," she told me. "You saw her face, the same as I did. You can't possibly believe she was aware..." I cut her off, angry again.

"Stop trying to placate me, damn it!" I yelled. "You saw her masturbating, same as him. You say you're here for me, but all I've heard from you so far is sticking up for the two of them."

"That's not what I'm doing at all," she raised her voice a bit. "Look, I don't think she was in a state of consciousness that we could reasonably say she knew what he was doing.

I can't accept that. She loves you. There are things that I find... Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. We can get through this. Let me help you."

She suddenly sounded unsure, and that refueled my rage. I wanted everyone to feel as I did. I wanted my pound of flesh. The entire thing was so well planned out. I was a victim by default - maybe the only one unaware.

"Why are you doing this Margaret?" I asked skeptically. "The truth?"

"Because, Marshall," she replied. "It's my nature. My brother knew me all too well. I realized early on, when I was dragged into this thing, that I would need to see it through. I couldn't have it dumped on me, and then just dump it on you and Rebecca in turn.

He used me, just like he did you.

He put almost unlimited resources in my lap for that purpose."

"So what if I just strangled you right here and now," I said, ignoring her statement, "and called it even? An eye for an eye. I stop his game, and I stop the inevitable outcome he hopes for."

"You could," she answered without emotion, "although I hope you don't. But I've prepared for that too. Some of my former colleagues are familiar with what's going on, although I kept your names from them. They know I'm with you now and what to do if I don't check in with them regularly each day."

When I didn't respond for several moments, she continued. "Marshall, right now we have to get through the rest of this. My brother has successfully and probably purposefully done this in such a way as to jumble and attack all five stages of grief simultaneously. I'm watching something I've only read about in textbooks play out right in front of me. But, I'm determined to see this through with you. I won't leave you until you're in a good place, I swear it. Then we can discuss how to approach your wife because she's going to have to experience all the same emotions. I expect it will be far more difficult on her, even if it's only pure guilt for allowing him to get away with what he did to her."

As I sat and contemplated, Margaret was on her phone, making some sort of arrangements with the hotel management to have the room cleaned. She gave instructions, which I only heard, but paid little attention to. When she was finished she came and sat down next to me at the table.

Staring off at the water, as I was, she asked, "Are you going to be okay to go back in a while, or should we just talk about what's already transpired?"

I contemplated that question. I didn't think I could take anymore. I wasn't sure what else there could be. He'd effectively taken everything from me, made me powerless to retaliate, and stripped me of my dignity. I decided to unburden myself of that to Margaret. She listened intently.

"I'm sure that's exactly how you feel right now." She said. "I'm equally sure it will take some time, no matter what else he has planned, for you to regain your sense of self - to feel normal. But I assure you, right now, you're feeling and acting exactly as most anyone else would under the circumstances. That makes you normal, by definition.

"Let's get some room service ordered," she continued after a short pause, "and see what else we're dealing with. I can't imagine he has anything left to cause more damage than has already been done."

As we walked back, I decided that I didn't want any more food. Well, not a full meal. I worried that there would be more videos of him with her, and I'd be back to leaning into a commode. There was a little Asian noodle carry-out on the way back, and while Margaret order a string bean chicken bowl, I just went for a side of fried rice.

We got off the elevator on her floor, but she steered me to a different room. She'd stopped at reception but I didn't notice why. I gave a questioning look.

"The previous room will need... some maintenance." She said that with a little smile.

I took two stiff drinks and slammed them, against Margaret's advice. I poured a third and set it on the table. All of our belongings had been moved to the new room, including those damned DVDs. She put the same one in that we'd been viewing, and clicked play.

"Believe me, Marshall," he started again. "I wanted to show you all the videos. That's how much I hate you. You don't deserve that, but alas, that's the way it goes.

Rebecca and I did it six times in total. Six times, Marshall - over a month and a half. It happened exactly the same way each time, and that's what ultimately swayed me to leave them out of this movie. I'd rather you imagined those other five couplings. I hope you struggle with those thoughts. Did I make love to her? Was it the same? Did she suddenly come to, professing her eternal love for me? Did I awaken her on purpose? Those and more, are all legitimate questions. Spend the night mulling it over, Marshall. Tell me I'm not allowed near your wife or to spend time with my love, will you? Well, who's the better man now, asshole? I've had her just as you have. And now, she has a child."

The DVD stopped abruptly. I was so fried, I couldn't even react. I downed the third glass, and then ate some of my rice. What a cathartic combination. Half an hour later, I asked Margaret to put in the last DVD. She asked if I was sure. "Do it," I told her.

Theodore was sitting on the front of his desk, instead of behind it. The phone or camera was propped against something directly in front of and below him.

"So I'm the most despicable person on earth," he said, more solemnly in this video. "I suppose so. As I said, I have obsessions. Obsessions and fetishes. Feet and other men's wives, among many others. Rebecca was my obsession, from day one. Only after my terminal diagnosis, did it grab me. She wasn't going to be mine anymore. Who would care for her, when I was gone? I worried a lot about that. I hadn't ever thought that through. As much as it pains me, the man I hate is also the man she loves dearly.

What a conundrum.

"So," he went on, "I decided to do the only thing that was available to me. I would punish you, and then I would hand my love over to you, to love and cherish, just like you'd promised on your wedding day. I had many thoughts about how that would unfold. You could turn your hate for me against her. I'd have to do everything I could to protect her, pre-hubris. If the child was mine, I'd also have to take steps to protect her too.

"However," he continued, "if you agreed to love her, for better or for worse - if you could put Theodore, the monster, aside and try to live a happy life with Rebecca, then I had to prepare for that as well. That's what the third video is about, Marshall. It's time to decide."

I needed another break.

Margaret sensed it too and paused the DVD. She asked if I wanted anything, or to talk. I turned her down on both counts. Indifference was settling in now. Margaret was right. All five stages at once, swirling endlessly and relentlessly, choking my mind.

"I fucking hate him," I said to nobody, even though there was only one person in the room.

Margaret only nodded her affirmation.

After a bathroom break, I splashed some water on my face and went back to the living room. "Margaret, go ahead and play the rest," I requested. "I don't have much more in me. I want to finish it right now."

Theodore's voice came back to life. "... so let me tell you what I've planned.

"It's likely you're not bonding with your daughter. That's because I planted a suggestion into your subconscious that you would be forced to raise another man's child and would be powerless to do anything about it.

The real father would be a man you despise. You see, the power of suggestion is far greater than the power of hypnosis, and not just for you. Every person who owns a television suffers from that power for as long each day as they watch it.

"Still," he continued, "the child could be yours as easily as it could be mine. I know what you're thinking, but again, I'm ahead of you.

Among the few final legal things that will take place this week, is a court-ordered paternity test. The results will come to you only.

"Again, Marshall, I'd understand your primal need for some sort of vengeance, and since I'm no longer within reach, I can also understand you may feel a need to lash out at Rebecca.

If you do, I've already arranged to go public with my love affair with her, and believe me; it's intended to cause you maximum shame and regret. You'll be the laughingstock of your town - maybe the country. You know how much the media loves a juicy sex scandal. I admit that will hurt my love too. But I've also taken steps to see that she's well cared for, during those dark times.

"My sister has some documentation in her possession that's to be opened and read only after you view these three videos. It will detail my amendments to my last will-and-testament. You can only communicate with my attorney, through one of your own.

That's for Rebecca's protection, but also for yours."

There was another pause.

Theodore looked down at his hands.

He was wringing them nervously. He looked a little... what? Unraveled. I found it to be odd.

"Let me show you something," he said unsure of himself. "I know what the real question is in your mind. This is how it works. Understand, I've planted dozens of suggestions into Rebecca's mind over the years, just like I did to you. They're implanted in your subconscious. You aren't aware of them, but with the right help, they can be removed. I won't show you that, because well, that would be breaking an oath to others like me."

The screen changed. Theo was with Becca and her friend, at Becca's father's house. They were simply talking nonsense. Theodore said "Isn't it... two feet below?" Both girls looked like anyone you've ever seen that was suddenly put under hypnosis. Becca's arms became very relaxed at her side. Her friend had a soda in her hand, and she immediately set it on the counter.

Both girls passively walked to the sofa, and removed their shoes, without further direction. Theodore moved the ottoman in front of them, and they both put their feet up. Becca looked exactly as she did when the phone rang on our... my home security tapes.

She answered, and then seemed to carry out a preordained set of instructions. In that case, opening the door and letting Theodore in.

Another scene appeared.

Becca had her toes in my mouth as I lay on our bed. Theodore was fishing around in his pants, probably getting his dick out. The camera moved up and toward Becca's face and she wore the same blank expression.

Finally, in another scene, the camera was moving violently, like someone was running or fumbling it.

In the background, Margaret and I could hear a frantic "Two feet below. Two feet below! Wake up!" Then the phone was aimed at a floor - my kitchen floor. I could plainly hear my own voice in the background, saying, "What the fuck is this?"

The scene cut abruptly.

Theodore was back at his desk.

"Remember, Marshall, Rebecca didn't do this - I did. She fell into my trap, like so many before her. So did you."

I looked over at Margaret, who'd stopped listening and was reading through the paperwork from the envelope.

"It's decision time," he said. "And always remember, Marshall, I..."

Margaret clicked the video off. I looked at her questioningly.

"It's over Marshall," she said. "If I know him, he was only looking to get one last jab in."

I just sat there. I knew I should be reacting... doing something, but I couldn't think of anything. Margaret looked up at me and motioned for the bottle. I poured us each a glass, splitting what was left.

"Okay," she started, "here's the gist of what he's done. First, Ted has put aside a sizable chunk of money for me, if I will help Rebecca and you for the foreseeable future. He's talking about getting both of you the best psychotherapy money can buy, and asking me to assist with that.

"I've already started that on my own, anyway. Don't want or need his money. That can go to you and your wife. Ted has left over four hundred thousand in an offshore account to pay those mental health professionals. He's..."

I raised my hand to stop her. "We don't need his money, or any mental prodding, damn it,"

The pitiful look was back.

"Marshall, I understand," she spoke over me, "that this is a lot to take in. I'm not talking about what you or I are doing. Only what he's done. We'll discuss an action plan in depth over the next several weeks. There's more here."

She was right, I thought, settling back into the sofa. I wanted the nightmare over with. She took a moment to collect her thoughts and began again.

"Clearly," she said, "he had a lot more money than I'd ever imagined. It's all in offshore tax-free accounts. The bulk of it, according to these papers, is yours... well, yours and Rebecca's if you stay with her, and raise Trinity together.

"There's also money from an account with a large monthly stipend... like child support, I guess, in case Trinity is his child. There's also a college fund and a trust that becomes available to her at age twenty-six. And lastly, aside from all that, there's another offshore account with one million dollars - five hundred grand each - for you and Rebecca, if you stay together - which matures on Trinity's eighteenth birthday. He's organized a rather intricate campaign to keep you and your family together."

"Yeah, more like force me into being a willing cuckold." I spat. Margaret looked at me quizzically.

"I don't understand," she said. "He's dead, and the money isn't meant for humiliation."

"Of course it is," I replied emphatically. "It's intended for a lifetime of humiliation. He wants to force money on me, to force me to raise his kid. That's over and above everything he's already done. Can't you see? It's another method of control. He wants me to remember every day that he's won; that he's the better man."

"Okay, I suppose I can see what you're saying," she said, sadly. "But that's more a point of view than a fact. One could easily counter that what's in this document is an evil man, trying to make amends in the end. I think you making it a competition, especially now and into the future, is counterproductive to your healing, not to mention, Rebecca and your daughter.

"If you feel that way now," she answered less confidently, "I'm worried about how you get through this.

How you help your family get through it."

I'd had enough of this.

She was a woman, who could never understand the brevity that had been heaped upon me these past few days, regardless of whatever degree she held. I needed to go lie down and try to rest, but I needed a few answers to things first.

"Doc," I called her for the first time, "You could never understand how I feel, how most men would feel in these circumstances. That's why you won't be able to help me, and I'd never be your patient. That -and the fact that the perp is your flesh and blood. But I have a few questions, and I want honest answers. Can you at least do that?"

She looked like she wanted to defend that statement but then thought better of it. She nodded and sat back down. I did the same.

"What I need to know, Margaret," I began, "is in your professional opinion, what are the chances that Rebecca was not in a hypnotized state during any of this? What percentage? And then specifically, the percentages surrounding her drugging my food, and having his child?"

"I was planning on having this very discussion tomorrow," Margaret steadied herself, "after you had rest and time to... digest it all. But, I can answer you now.

"The percentage of people," she took in a heavy breath. "Who can be hypnotized is still under debate.

Each new study provides a new outcome.

Some studies show eight in ten.

Others suggest it's less, as in half of the test subjects. So in addition to my brother, and what he's done, you may have another issue. That's the reason I kept my conversation with your wife so vague.

"Then," she continued, "to your second question. Only ten percent of all people are highly receptive to hypnosis. Rebecca would have to be one of those ten percent to have been that easily controlled on the many levels that she was."

"Thank you, for your honesty," I replied.

"I'm not finished," she went on. "I was planning to spend tomorrow with you. To help sort out your emotions - which then lead you toward a decision. Then Saturday, I was going to visit Rebecca at your sister's house.

Try to understand how she fell so deeply under Ted's spell. Ask the questions that could help us learn if she was truly under his spell.

I personally believe she was under his influence, subconsciously, which is very close to hypnosis. But for your sake, I want to find out for sure."

"I want to talk to her," I suddenly demanded. "I want to talk to her now. But, I'm also not sure that you interviewing her would be any better than me doing it. I know her every move. Or at least I thought I did."

"I get it," she added. "But as you just realized, she may have been fooling you for a long time. You may not know her at all. She certainly wasn't honest with you when my brother moved into your neighborhood - at least by omission. Please let me handle those questions, as an interview.

If you want me to record it, I will, with her permission of course."

There wasn't any more fight in me - at least for that night. I went to bed. I thought about Rebecca for a long time. My Becca.

The woman I fell in love with.

Then I thought about just how right Margaret could be. Instantly, I became saddened at the thought of how long it might be before regaining trust in the woman I loved.

I couldn't help but think about Theodore, and some of what he said. He'd seemed hesitant to show the video of how he took control of my wife.

I grabbed my phone and searched 'meanings for "two feet below." The only thing other than the obvious was regarding the floor or ceiling grade and pitch of a building, and most referenced the crawl space under a dwelling. Was there a cryptic meaning he left there? Who knew?

And then there was Trinity.

On the bright side, she wasn't really old enough that I'd become emotionally invested, other than in the ways all fathers feel about a baby girl. I didn't think Theo was right about planting a suggestion so we couldn't bond. I saw myself outside of his reach, and if anything, the fact that he had had my wife drugging me, gave me confidence in that assertion.

It took a long time to fall asleep. In the morning I sat at breakfast with Margaret. I apologized for going at her, and she told me that she expected far worse. We discussed how I felt, but I was pretty numb. I had her re-summarize all this money her brother offered. I needed to poke holes in his sudden change of heart and goodwill. By the end of the day, I was still of the mind that I wouldn't ever take a dime of that dirty fortune.

Saturday, Amy brought Trinity to our house, so I could spend time while Margaret went to discuss everything with my wife. It was a welcome distraction from my shit life. As it turned out, I spent the entire day with Trinity, until Amy came to get her around eight at night. She was still too young to spend the night without her mom.

I lay in bed alone that night. The house seemed cold and empty - just like my life. I had no idea what I was going to do. If Becca was lying, that would be the end of us. But what if she wasn't? What if she was one of those ten percent? Doubt kept creeping into my mind. I wasn't sure I was strong enough to make it through.