Five months ago Randall had died.
“Where?”
Wade rubbed his hands together. His fingers were shaking. “A hospice facility inland.”
“What facility?”
He hesitated.
My grief changed shape.
It happened so quickly I felt it physically. The helplessness hardened first, then narrowed, finding a target.
“You’re choosing what to tell me.”
“No.”
“Yes.” I planted one hand on the floor and pushed myself upright. Wade rose with me, reaching for my elbow, and I slapped his hand away again. “You’ve had five months to practice this conversation, so don’t stand in my house pretending you don’t know the answers.”
“I know the answers.”
“Then answer.”
“He was moved near the end.”
“From where?”
“Meryl, you need to read the letter.”
“I need you to tell me where my husband died.”
His jaw tightened. “Cedar Ridge Hospice.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s outside Raleigh.”
