“Yes.”
“And home.”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
Wade’s silence answered too slowly.
“Where were you while he packed?”
“In my truck.”
Outside.
The whole time, outside.
I pictured it with sickening clarity. Wade’s truck at the curb or across the street, engine perhaps running, headlights off. Randall upstairs folding shirts while I stood in the bedroom asking how a man could leave his wife the night before cancer treatment.
And Wade waiting.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“Forty minutes. Maybe fifty.”
“You sat outside my house for fifty minutes.”
“Yes.”
“While he destroyed my life.”
Wade’s jaw flexed. “Yes.”
“You could have come in.”
“I know.”
“You could have stopped him.”
“I tried before we got there.”
“Not hard enough.”
“No.”
“You keep saying that as if it absolves you.”
“It doesn’t.”
I stood, clutching Randall’s medical records.
“Then defend yourself.”
Wade looked confused.
