Part 2 - He Left Me Dying So I Could Survive His Final Secret [AT]
“Meryl, if Wade has given you this, I have been dead for months.”
The words would not stay still.
I read them again because there had to be another arrangement of those letters that made sense. Dead could mean gone. Months could mean something else. Randall had spent thirty-five years correcting my habit of reading frightening things too quickly—insurance notices, biopsy instructions, hurricane warnings—putting one finger beneath a sentence and telling me to take it word by word.
Now there was no finger under the sentence.
There was only Wade’s arm around my shoulders and the hard edge of the hall table against my back.
“No,” I said. My voice sounded thick and distant. “No, he isn’t.”
Wade held me more firmly when I tried to get up. I hated that immediately. I hated his hand under my elbow, hated the wool of his jacket scratching my cheek, hated that I needed him to keep me from pitching sideways onto the floor.
