woman I had married flickered through the exhaustion, the woman who used to dance barefoot in our apartment kitchen while pasta boiled over and bills piled on the table.
Then she shook her head once.
“Daniel,” she whispered, “not here.”
The words were gentle, but they landed heavily.
Not here.
Not in front of Jennifer.
Not in this house.
Not while the walls were listening.
I closed the box.
“All right,” I said. “Then we’ll leave.”
Jennifer’s eyes widened. “Leave? Daniel, everyone is inside waiting for you.”
“No,” I said. “They’re not. They don’t even know I’m here.”
Her lips pressed together.
That confirmed it.
I turned to Emma. “Get whatever you need.”
She looked toward the house, and for the first time I saw panic move across her face.
“I don’t have much upstairs,” she said.
My throat tightened. “What do you mean?”
