Free A Good Marriage by Stephen King

. . . but once you’ve tried the real thing, fantasy isn’t worth a damn.”
    He was talking, Darcy thought, like a man who had fallen in love with some expensive delicacy. Caviar. Truffles. Belgian chocolates.
    “But the point is, I stopped. For all those years, I stopped . And I could stop again, Darcy. This time for good. If there’s a chance for us. If you could forgive me and just turn the page.” He looked at her, earnest and wet-eyed. “Is it possible you could do that?”
    She thought of a woman buried in a snowdrift, her naked legs exposed by the careless swipe of a passing plow—some mother’s daughter, once the apple of some father’s eye as she danced clumsily across a grammar-school stage in a pink tutu. She thought of a mother and son discovered in a freezing creek, their hair rippling in the black, iceedgedwater. She thought of the woman with her head in the corn.
    “I’d have to think about it,” she said, very carefully.
    He grasped her by the upper arms and leaned toward her. She had to force herself not to flinch, and to meet his eyes. They were his eyes . . . and they weren’t. Maybe there’s something to that ghost business after all, she thought.
    “This isn’t one of those movies where the psycho husband chases his screaming wife all around the house. If you decide to go to the police and turn me in, I won’t lift a finger to stop you. But I know you’ve thought about what it would do to the kids. You wouldn’t be the woman I married if you hadn’t thought about that. What you might not have thought about is what it would do to you. Nobody would believe that you were married to me all these years and never knew . . . or at least suspected. You’d have to move away and live on what savings there are, because I’ve always been the breadwinner, and a man can’t win bread when he’s in jail. You might not even be able to get at what there is, because of the civil suits. And of course the kids—”
    “Stop it, don’t talk about them when you talk about this, don’t you ever .”
    He nodded humbly, still holding lightly to her forearms. “I beat BD once—I beat him for twenty years—”
    Sixteen, she thought again. Sixteen, and you know it.
    “—and I can beat him again. With your help,Darce. With your help I can do anything. Even if he were to come back in another twenty years, so what? Big deal! I’d be seventy-three. Hard to go snoot-hunting when you’re shuffling around in a walker!” He laughed cheerily at this absurd image, then sobered again. “But—now listen to me carefully—if I were ever to backslide, even one single time, I’d kill myself. The kids would never know, they’d never have to be touched by that . . . that, you know, stigma . . . because I’d make it look like an accident . . . but you’d know. And you’d know why. So what do you say? Can we put this behind us?”
    She appeared to consider. She was considering, in fact, although such thought processes as she could muster were probably not trending in a direction he would be likely to understand.
    What she thought was: It’s what drug addicts say. “I’ll never take any of that stuff again. I’ve quit before and this time I’ll quit for good. I mean it.” But they don’t mean it, even when they think they do they don’t, and neither does he.
    What she thought was: What am I going to do? I can’t fool him, we’ve been married too long.
    A cold voice replied to that, one she had never suspected of being inside her, one perhaps related to the BD-voice that whispered to Bob about the snoots it observed in restaurants, laughing on street corners, riding in expensive sports cars with the top down, whispering and smiling to each other on apartment-building balconies.
    Or perhaps it was the voice of the Darker Girl.
    Why can’t you? it asked. After all . . . he fooled you.
    And then what? She didn’t know. She only knew that now was now, and now had to be dealt with.
    “You’d have to