Karen waited two days. Charles didn’t reply.

She wasn’t sure he ever would.

She knew Charles. She tried to imagine the shock and dismay that her e-mail must have caused.

The same shock he had caused when she saw his face up on that screen.

Karen checked her e-mails several times a day. She knew what must be going through him now. Sitting in some remote part of the globe, the careful construct of his new life suddenly crumbling. It must be killing him—retracing every step, running through a thousand possibilities.

How could she possibly know?

How many times, Karen imagined, he would have read over those two words. Replaying everything in his mind, racking his brain, all the preparations he had made. His bowels acting up. Not sleeping. Things always affected Charles that way. You owe me, she said to him silently, relishing this image of him, panicked, rocked. You owe me for the hurt you put me through. The lies…

Still, she couldn’t forgive him. Not for what he’d done to her—to the kids. She no longer knew if there was love between them. If there was anything still between them, other than the memory of a life spent together. Still, it didn’t matter. She just wanted to hear from him. She wanted to see him—face-to-face.

Answer me, Charlie…

Finally, after three days, Karen typed out another message. She closed her eyes and begged him.