She flinched at the word “please.” It was worse than when he snapped. She climbed into her seat without another word, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
I stood slowly. My knees felt strange, as though they belonged to someone else.
“Nolan.”
“Not here, Maren.”
“Then where?”
“At home. Please.”
I got into the passenger seat because I did not trust myself behind the wheel. The entire drive home, I watched the road lines blur past and tried to make the numbers fit in my head.
A red coat. A red car.
A blonde woman from a company party I had barely remembered until twenty minutes earlier.
Crying money. For my husband, who never cried.
The worst part was not the suspicion. It was that I already knew, in the way wives sometimes know things, that whatever the truth was, it was going to rearrange the furniture of my whole life.
