He smiled again.
“She never liked sleeping near the balcony door anyway.”
A sob escaped me before I could stop it.
For thirty-five years, Randall had teased me about hotel balconies. I always checked the lock twice. He always claimed this was because I secretly believed seagulls knew how to operate sliding doors.
The recording continued.
“I don’t get to decide whether she goes,” he said. “That’s important.”
The words changed the room.
Randall looked directly at the lens now.
“I decided too much.”
Wade shifted beside me.
“My reason doesn’t make that less true.” Randall’s breathing became shallow, and he waited for it to settle. “I lied to my wife. I made her think thirty-five years meant less to me than a diagnosis. I used what I knew about her against her. I made Wade lie. I made my children think their father was a coward.”
