“You missed Sam,” I said quietly.
“I know.” He closed his eyes. “I saw his texts. I couldn’t answer them. I couldn’t let him hear me like this. I promised him. I promised I’d never…”
“He’s here, Greg.”
His eyes opened. He turned his head slowly and looked across the parking lot at my car.
Sam was standing outside it. He hadn’t stayed inside after all. He was standing by the front bumper with his hands in his jacket pockets, watching us, his face white in the gray afternoon light.
Greg made a sound like he’d been hit.
“Don’t let him see me like this,” he whispered. “Laura, please.”
“He’s already seen you,” I said. “He’s seen you a lot worse than this. He remembers everything, Greg. He told me. He was eight years old on that bench, and he remembers.”
