"Ha-ha. At least you have a gun," I said. "Speaking of dangerous, I've been meaning to ask you, Elena. How dangerous is that DEA task force thing at work?"

"Are you kidding me?" Elena said, handing me an hors d'oeuvrepacked silver tray. "You have to be a stone-cold supercop like your husband to even think about doing undercover work. Besides, you mean how dangerous was that DEA task force thing. They rerouted the DEA agents back to Miami, like, two months ago. Fed funding dried up. Sucks, too. I did surveillance for them for almost two weeks. The overtime was kick-a.s.s. Take those out now. The yuppie natives look like they're getting restless."

Over? For the last two months? I thought as I stumbled out onto the gra.s.s, the tray almost slipping from my hand.

Then where the h.e.l.l had Peter been going on Sat.u.r.days only to come home at three in the morning? I wondered.

For the last two months.

Chapter 17.

PETER BLINKED when he turned on the kitchen light and saw me sitting ramrod straight with my arms folded at the table at five thirty the next morning.

"Jeanine, you're up," he said.

Two months, I thought, noticing that he was showered. I didn't know whether to scream or cry or hit him. I was ready for all three at once.

Why had Peter been lying through his teeth to me for over two months!?

"I'm up all right," I said. "All night, in fact. I wanted to ask you a question. Um, I wonder how I can put this delicately. Where the f.u.c.k have you been going every Sat.u.r.day for the past two f.u.c.kING months?"

Peter held up his hands, a completely floored expression on his face. "What in the name of G.o.d are you talking about? Where do you think I've been? Mexico? I've been at work."

"Then why did Elena tell me that the DEA task force returned to Miami two months ago?"

"She what?" he said. He actually laughed. "It's OK, Jeanine. Don't shoot. I can explain. It's simple. For a cop, your boss, Elena, is one h.e.l.l of a caterer. She doesn't know what she's talking about. You didn't tell her, did you? That I was still involved with the DEA?"

"No," I said, confused. "Don't change the subject."

"Listen to me for a second, all right? The DEA only said they were going back to Miami. They have a confidential informant who said there's a leak in the department. Some bad cop is leaking stuff to a suspected drug smuggling operation. That's why the chief hand-selected me. It was stupid not to explain it to you. I should have told you. The important thing is not to tell Elena about it. Don't tell anyone."

"You think Elena might be a bad cop?" I said.

"Who the h.e.l.l knows?" Peter said, shrugging as he took the orange juice out of the fridge. "Somebody in the department is. We can't rule her out."

"Are you sure about all of this, Peter?" I said, staring into his eyes. "I mean, are you really sure you're sure?"

"Am I sure?" he said, laughing again as he stared right back. "Christ, Jeanine. Look at you. I thought cops were suspicious. You want to look at my pay stubs? Check our phone records. If you want, I'll bring home a CSI kit so you can take prints."

"It's just..." I began and then started crying.

Peter stepped over and opened his palms.

"Hands," he demanded.

I gave mine over.

"Look in my eyes," he said. "There. Much better. Now, I have a question. Why do you think I married you?"

"You love me?" I said.

"Ya think?" he said. "Look, Jeanine. I never told you this before, but you weren't the only one that night on the beach who was seriously thinking about calling it quits. I was sick of it. Being a cop, Key West, people, partying. I don't know, being alive, everything. It all seemed so meaningless and stupid." He smiled down at me.

"Then I rolled up and looked into your eyes, and I haven't been inside a church since my Communion, Jeanine, but it felt holy, you know? Like G.o.d sent me an angel down from heaven. After I got to know you and realized how incredible we were together, I knew it was true."

"Not an angel, a mermaid," I said, sniffling.

"Exactly," Peter said, wiping a tear off my nose. "You're the first thing in a long time, maybe the only thing ever, that actually makes me want to get out of bed and floss my teeth and balance my checkbook. You understand? I'm not Alex. I'm not some a.s.shole. I'd do anything. I'd die before hurting you. I'd burn this s.h.i.+t-heel, sunburned tourist trap to the ground, if you wanted me to. I'd-"

"Oh, Peter," I said, crying as I kissed him. "I know. I'm sorry. My Saint Peter, my love," I said, burying my face in his shoulder.

Chapter 18.

ON FRIDAY NIGHT, exactly one week before our trip to Palm Beach, I was sitting on the couch, thinking about going to bed early. But at the last second, I decided to throw caution to the wind and put my flip-flops on and head out to the island's only Blockbuster, half a mile away on North Roosevelt Boulevard.

Peter was pulling a double, directing traffic at some road construction on the Overseas Highway up in Big Pine Key, so I was flying solo. Being much more of a cla.s.sic movie buff than he was, I decided I couldn't waste the home-alone opportunity to indulge in a late-night Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k double feature. I snagged The Birds and North by Northwest off the shelf.

I was a foot out the door when I hit the Unlock b.u.t.ton on my car key fob and heard the faint bloop-bloop.

No, wait, I thought as I suddenly spotted my battered blue Vespa at the curb. What was I thinking? I'd taken the moped. Our new Toyota Supra was still with Peter at work.

I stopped and stared down at my car key fob, confused. Why had I heard the car beep, then?

I scanned the parking lot as I thumbed Unlock a second time. I turned to my left as the double bloop sounded out faintly again.

What the heck? It seemed to be coming from across the street.

I stepped past my Vespa to the edge of the sidewalk that rimmed the strip mall's lot and hit the fob one last time.

In a parking lot directly across North Roosevelt Boulevard, a parked car's lights went on and off with the familiar electronic bloop.

I stared across at it. It was sleek, black, brand-new. What the h.e.l.l? I squinted at the Florida license plate. Yep, it was ours. It was our Supra.

But why was it there? I thought. Shouldn't it be parked at police headquarters? Shouldn't it be at Peter's job?

Then I made the mistake of reading the lit sign on the building behind the car.

A sickening numbness sprouted in the pit of my stomach and began expanding upward, outward, filling my chest like a swallowed balloon.

BEST WESTERN, the sign said.

Chapter 19.

CARS WENT BACK AND FORTH on North Roosevelt as I stood there, staring at the s.h.i.+ny black hood of Peter's car sitting in the Best Western parking lot.

OK, I finally thought as my shock eased up slightly a long five minutes later.

Slowly now, I urged myself.

Think this through.

I tried. Nothing would come. It was fruitless. There wasn't anything to think about. Even an idiot like me knew what finding your husband's car in a motel parking lot meant.

One word surfaced in my swirling mind. It made sense that it had four letters. As I stood there, it was as if each one was being struck into the surface of my brain with the heavy-handed pound of an old-fas.h.i.+oned typewriter.

L-I-A-R.

Peter was a liar.

There was no construction job at Big Pine. No overtime. I also figured there was no DEA a.s.signment and never had been. Peter had lied about the other night and about all the other double s.h.i.+fts over the last two months.

As I stood on the sidewalk in the dark across from the Best Western, the thing that struck me most-more than hurt, more than even anger-was the sudden knowledge of exactly how vulnerable I was.

Because my whole life revolved around Peter, I realized. The house was his, and so were the car and the boat. In the last two years, my six-dollar-an-hour, off-the-books catering job had paid for what? Some clothes from the Gap? The occasional meal?

I had nothing, I realized. Not even the University of Florida academic scholars.h.i.+p I had blown off when brilliant old me decided to throw caution to the wind and pull a Jimmy Buffett and take that last plane out.

I'd put all my chips on Peter, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that his car across the street meant that I'd lost big time.

No, wait a second. Correction, I thought, cupping my stomach.

It wasn't just me who had lost big time.

So had my brand-new baby on board.

Well, what did you expect, Jeanine? screeched my next thought.

This new internal voice was my mother's, I realized. The unforgettable tone was her black, drunken raging that occurred more and more after my dad's death.

Are you really that stupid, Jeanie Beanie? What kind of cop would cover up a man's death? What kind of cop would get rid of a body? An Eagle Scout? Did you really think you could make a b.l.o.o.d.y mess and not have to pay for it? And while we're on the subject of b.l.o.o.d.y messes, what's up with the machine pistol you found on your handsome husband's boat?

A hair-raising pulse of terror gripped the back of my neck like a claw. I reared back until my shoulder blades found the video store's wall. I started sliding down it until my b.u.t.t touched the cold, hard concrete.

The traffic went by obliviously on the dark street as I covered my face with my hands like a toddler trying to make herself disappear. At that moment I realized something for the first time.

It had somehow completely escaped me.

I had taken everything Peter had told me about himself at face value.

I really had no idea at all who Peter was.

Chapter 20.

IT WAS ABOUT ten soul-annihilating minutes later when one of the motel's ground-floor rooms opened and a man exited.

Even though I'd been expecting it, it still felt like an uppercut to the chin when I saw that it was Peter.

That wasn't the only blow, either. Peter was wearing a suit. It was a tailored dark blue one I'd never seen before, an Armani maybe.

I started sobbing. How could this be happening? How could the man who'd introduced me to "Brandy" and The Princess Bride and the joys of j.a.panese beer be the world's biggest lying sc.u.mbag?

I watched Peter as he scanned the parking lot carefully. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled the motel room door closed behind him and headed for the Supra.

I turned and broke into a run for my moped as he opened the car door.

Was whoever he was with still in the room? I wondered, still flabbergasted. Or maybe they hadn't met yet. Maybe he was going to pick her up?

"Hey, can I be the fifth wheel on your date, you son of a b.i.t.c.h?" I said to myself, truly losing it as I gunned my Vespa to life. "Thanks, Peter. Don't mind if I do. s.e.xy suit, by the way."

Duval Street, Key West's main strip, was staggering room only as I buzzed onto it two cars behind Peter's Supra a few minutes later.

With its packed bars and outdoor street stalls that sold beer and rum the way Coney Island sold hot dogs, Duval Street was to Key West what Bourbon Street was to New Orleans. Except in Key West, it seemed that Mardi Gras was every night.

I pulled to the curb in front of a crowded bar as Peter turned the car into a side alley beside a T-s.h.i.+rt shop and parked. What now, Peter? I thought. Some drinking and dancing? A late dinner perhaps?

My clenching hands shook on the moped's sweat-slicked rubber handlebars. I still couldn't believe this was happening.

I sat waiting about a block back, scanning the Friday night sidewalk parade of navy aviators, drag queens, college kids, beach b.u.ms, and trendy millionaire couples on vacation. Peter appeared a few moments later from the alley. He was holding a small green duffel bag now, I noticed.

How do you like that? I thought as he headed south through the crowd. Maybe Peter's alter ego was now going to hit the gym?

A double s.h.i.+ft? I thought, absolutely stunned, as I gunned my moped to life and started to follow him again.

It was more like Peter was working a double life.