The Fourth Side of the Triangle

Now Sheila’s hot words, his own guilts, the underlying fear of the confrontation with his father, made him erupt. He leaped at Sheila, whirled her about, and seized her by the throat. He felt, rather than heard, his own voice rumbling, jeering, cursing, choking with hate.

Sheila struggled; her resistance fed his fury. His fingers tightened... It was not until her face turned livid, her cries became gurgles, her eyes glassed over and she went suddenly sodden under his hands — it was not until then that a shudder shook him and awareness returned.

Sheila lay collapsed on the floor, barely able to support herself on her forearms, breathing in great gasps. But breathing. Dane stared down at her. There was nothing he could say. It was all over between them. How could she ever look at him again without fear?

His plans — to help his mother — punish his father — marry Sheila... all, they were all strangled by that single burst of homicidal fury. What was any of them worth now?

She was alive. He could at least take satisfaction in that.

Dane seized his coat and ran.

Sheila got to her knees, pulled herself erect, toppled onto the ottoman.

She spent some time learning to swallow again, her hands trembling on her bruised throat. She felt cold and sick; her body was racked with shudders. Gradually they subsided, her gasps became normal breathing, her racing heart slowed down.

The thought kept hammering in her head: He almost killed me. He wanted to; it was in his murderous eyes... Little things came back to her. Hadn’t there been signs? His unnatural sulkiness when thwarted? His easy excitability? His inexplicable silences?

Quivering, Sheila scrambled up and went to the bathroom and turned on the cold-water tap. She was drying herself when she heard a key in her door.

It was Ashton McKell.

He looked tired. But his face lit up as he saw her.

“Well, the nation’s fate is secure for tonight, anyway,” he said. “Old Ash McKell has given the President — good evening, Sheila” — he kissed her, sank onto the ottoman — “the benefit of his advice. Now all he has to do is take it. Sheila? Something wrong?”

She shook her head. Her hand was on her throat.

He jumped up and went to her. “What’s happened? Why are you holding your throat?”

“Ash... I can’t tell you.”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No. No.”

“Did someone hurt you?”

“Ash. Please—”

“Let me see your neck.”

“Ash, it’s nothing, I tell you.”

“I don’t understand.” He was distressed and bewildered.

“Ash, I don’t feel well. Would you understand if...?”

“You’d like me to leave?”

Weeping, she nodded. He hesitated, patted her shoulder, picked up his bag and hat, and left.

Sheila looked out her window at the nighttime city for a few minutes after Ashton McKell’s departure. All at once she turned away and hurried into her workroom. She pushed a pile of unfinished fashion sketches aside, took a sheet of note-paper and envelope from a drawer, sat down.

She wrote rapidly:

Sept. 14th

Dane McKell tonight asked if he could come up to my apartment for a nightcap. I told him I had work to do, but he insisted. In the apartment he refused to leave and nothing I could say made him do so. I lost my temper and slapped him. He then tried to strangle me. This is not hysteria on my part — he actually tried to strangle me. He took my throat in his hands and squeezed and seemed to be out of his mind with an insane rage. As he choked me he screamed that he was going to kill me and he called me many obscene names. Then he dropped me to the floor and ran out of the apartment. In another minute I would have been dead of strangulation. I am convinced that he is a dangerous person and I repeat his name, Dane McKell. He definitely tried to kill me.

(signed) Sheila Grey