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had a pretheater dinner party. She made a scene in front of my friends and employees. I wanted to strangle her. I was so upset that I argued about everything, even which car to take to the theater. Finally I insisted on driving mine, but I was so angry. . . . " |
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He had to stop for a moment as the recollections overwhelmed him: the yelling in the car, the cloying miasma of her expensive perfume, his rage so great that he couldn't function, couldn't get the brakes to work |
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"Mike?" Abby's sweet voice brought him back to the present. |
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He didn't want to go into detail. He said simply, "I lost control on the way down the hill." |
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The sympathy in her voice unnerved him; he had to show it was unmerited. He pulled away from her, sitting straight in the bed. "I laughed, Abby. As we hurtled toward the cliff, I laughed. I remember thinking how ironic it was; neither of us would live to throw away my money." |
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"But you survived." Abby found him again in the dark, caressing his tense jaw with her fingertips. |
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"Yeah. Lucky me. Do you know the most ironic part of all? Right then, I didn't just want her out of my life; I wanted her dead. She died. I killed her." |
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"It was an accident, Mike." |
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"Sure," he spat. He waited for the usual wave of self-blame to drown him as it did each time he let himself remember the crash. |
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