Fury on Sunday by Richard Matheson

tell her that Stan had phoned if it were Jane?
    And yet, she couldn’t stop the heavy heartbeats; she couldn’t check the trembling of her hands. Her breath began to quicken. She knew what Jane was like. She had seen the savage lusts she could arouse in herself at the slightest notice, knew she had no discretion at all when it came. And she knew she loved Bob too much. Sheloved him so much that trusting him wasn’t enough. She didn’t trust another woman in the world.
    She shook her head, furious at herself.
This is ridiculous
, she thought.
I’m going crazy. I’m making up everything. He’s gone to Stan’s apartment because Stan asked him to
.
    But
why
did Stan ask him to?
    She felt caught up in a horrible vortex whose inner currents would not let her loose. Suddenly, from nothing, she had built up a monster of suspicions and fears. Was this the lot of the pregnant woman? No, she thought, she was just a suspicious woman. She was too possessive and possessiveness bred suspicions.
    She closed her eyes. She must go to sleep and wait for him to come back. She must believe in her husband.
    But she found herself reaching over and turning on the lamp. She found herself standing on the cold floor, shivering.
And now what
, she asked herself,
what do you intend to do; run after him?
    Horribly enough, that was exactly what she wanted to do.
    She almost cried aloud, so miserable did it make her that doubt persisted despite all reason. Not doubt, really, she tried to amend in her own favor; not doubt, but fear. She was afraid for Bob, so terribly afraid for him. She shuddered.
    What if there were something else entirely? What if Jane had told Stan she had slept with Bob? What if drunk and mean, she had taunted Stan until the breaking point had come? What if, striking out blindly, she had accused Bob too, hoping to wound Stan by firing a buckshot charge of unfaithfulness at him, a charge that included every man she knew? Ruth knew how nasty and horrible Jane could get, how she’d say anything to hurt somebody she disliked.
    She couldn’t sleep now. She hurried nervously to the bureau and pulled clothes from her drawer. She didn’t care what the reason was, she didn’t care if Bob wanted her to stay home, she had to find out why Stan had called.
    The nightgown rustled to the floor and her body broke out in tiny goosebumps as the cold air covered her.
    Ten minutes later she had phoned for a cab, dressed and was moving down the stairs quickly.

3:20 AM
    After he put down the phone, Stan turned away, unable to look at Jane. He felt his hands trembling at his sides.
    “How
brave
,” she said, “leading him here to be killed. Your own friend.”
    “What did you want me to do?” he muttered, sick with shame.
    “Why don’t you—” she started.
    “Shut up, both of you,” Vince said calmly.
    Vince felt peace now. He felt very pleased with himself. He’d done something very clever. He had circumvented time and space. He didn’t have to leave now, didn’t have to worry about Stan and Jane calling the police. He didn’t have to go after his prey. His prey was coming to him.
    Satisfied, very confident and pleased, he walked over and sat on the piano bench. He sat there looking at Jane on the couch in her almost transparent nightgown, then over at Stan, who was looking out the window, his body looking heavy and ridiculous in those stupid pajamas.
    Spritely music tinkled in Vince’s mind—Liadov’s
Music Box
coupled with a Chopin
Valse Brilliante
—a dissonant but sparklingly exciting tonal companionship.
    Now it was just a matter of waiting. Everything was going right for a change. His arm still hurt, but the fiery, stabbing pain was gone. It had lessened to a dull gnawing ache. He could stand that. He could stand a lot of things, as long as he knew that Bob was coming.
    He held the pistol in his lap and looked at it. He tried to open it again. But there was only one hand available and his teeth gritted in irritation when