Twenty-five-year scotch crashes from crystal decanter into marbled glass, spilling up over the side beneath Sean Hannity’s shaky hand. He waits until the level rises nearly to the rim before yanking the glass up, carrying it to the Corinthian leather chair in front of the fire. He’s barely got his legs crossed before the door clicks open.
“No knock?!” Sean Hannity shouts, until he sees the face of his wife appear from behind the polished wood. His face changes, but doesn’t soften.
She seems as if she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t want to have to.
“What?” he bays plaintively.
“Just tell me,” she says.
Sean sighs, his eyes dropping to the floor, to the basement below.
“Tell me it wasn’t her.”
“Why? Why should I tell you something you should already know? That you should already have faith in me in?” Sean Hannity’s hand is shaking again, his eyes still low.
His wife stands silently. Her gaze does not harden, only grows distant.
“It was about real estate. I swear.”
The door closes behind her, leaving only the crackling of the fire, the sloshing of his drink. His heavy breathing.
“It was about real estate.”
Sean Hannity stands, screams, throws his drink against the wall. The glass shatters into a million little pieces.