A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath Read Free

upscale restaurant tucked between the San Francisco Ferry Building and the Bay Bridge. Rex looked dapper in his dark suit that complemented my one-piece black velvet and crepe jumpsuit. I grabbed my point-and-shoot camera from my purse and solicited a passing waiter to snap a picture of us before we climbed the stairs to the dining room overlooking the warmly lit Bay Bridge and twinkling city skyline. We mingled with the guests—all advocates for victim justice—and I proudly introduced Rex as an old friend. Later he shared that it felt strange to be in a group where murder had touched everyone’s lives.
    Outside on the deck near the shimmering water, over dinner with flickering candlelight, waltzing around the shiny dance floor, sipping mellow Napa Valley cabernet, we rediscovered our common interests. We laughed at lab episodes from the past, like passing Rex around to the ladies in the darkroom at the annual Christmas party or him watching me as I cleaned the inside of the fume hoods wearing a short skirt. He was there when I took my two younger sisters skiing, gladly escorting us to the company ski cabin because his wife and my first husband didn’t want to have anything to do with swooshing down slippery slopes. It was all in good fun. At that time we were both married to others and had no designs on crossing the other person’s boundaries.
    The Ferry Building’s ornate clock tower chimed eleven p.m.—not quite the midnight from Cinderella fame but time to head for home nonetheless. I selfishly didn’t want the evening to end. I had rediscovered an admirable friend, someone I could talk with freely, and someone with whom I shared a past—a respectable past without any secrets. As I pulled onto the lower deck of the Bay Bridge I remembered another night—my university graduation night—when the fog was held at bay outside the Golden Gate Bridge and bright stars illuminated the dark sky.
    “There’s a great view of the city from Treasure Island,” I said. “The night’s so clear. Would you like to stop for a few minutes?”
    “Just a few,” he laughed. “I have to get up at three thirty in the morning to get ready for work.”
    I parked the car in the visitors’ lot outside the main gate. We got out, climbed onto two rocks, and sat next to each other, savoring the sparkling lights of the city spread before us from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge, like a scrumptious dessert.
    “It’s a great shot,” Rex said, breaking the silence. “Too bad we don’t have our thirty-five-millimeter SLR cameras with us.”
    I loved that he shared my interest in photography beyond the popular point-and-shoot cameras. “We’ll have to plan better next time.” I laughed. “And bring warmer coats.”
    I hugged my arms and rubbed them to generate some warmth. I couldn’t help but feel like we were two awkward teenagers on a first date at the movies. We shifted a little closer together. Our shoulders touched. Then slowly, and gently, Rex wrapped his arm around my shoulders and I snuggled into his embrace. We sat tranquil for a few moments. It felt good to be able to trust a man again.
    “I almost didn’t ask you to come tonight,” I whispered. “The scenario reminded me too much of how I started dating John.”
    Rex didn’t answer, but I could feel his sympathy as he squeezed me a little tighter. In the warmth of his embrace, I was drawn back to another time and another place, the most dangerous in my life, when misplaced trust had escalated into a nightmare and almost took my life. Of course, I didn’t imagine any such thing at the time. Back then, it had started just like this, on what should have been nothing more than a carefree date arranged by a friend. . . .

PART ONE
    Passion

ONE
    Prince Charming
    “Thanks for coming,” Debbie said, giving my arm an extra little squeeze of appreciation.
    “Hey,” I said, “A promise is a promise.” She had called me earlier that day while I was at work,