I carefully applied a fresh layer of concealer to the faint, yellowish bruise near my collarbone.

I patted translucent powder over my cheeks to hide the tension in my face.

I brushed my hair forward, letting it fall over my shoulders to cover the mark on my neck.

I needed to look like the wife who had spent the day preparing for his arrival, the wife who had forgotten the harsh words and the tight grip of his fingers from the night before.

I went back to the kitchen and helped Laura arrange the artisanal bread basket.

The afternoon light was fading quickly now, turning the snow on the lawn a dull, icy blue.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed four times.

I stood by the kitchen window, watching the empty driveway.

The streetlights at the end of the cul-de-sac flickered on, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

Laura was quiet, focusing on her work, her movements efficient and silent.

My heart began to beat faster as the minutes ticked past.

I knew his schedule.

He would take the highway to avoid the Friday afternoon bottleneck near the country club.