Her face had drained of color.
“You recognize that.”
“No.”
“Elise.”
She stared at the wristband.
Jonah stepped closer to her. “Elise.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know I did something wrong.”
I picked up the band. The plastic was yellowing slightly near the clasp. RANDALL MERCER was printed in small black capitals, with a date from nine days after the divorce papers had arrived.
Elise’s eyes followed it.
“You saw one,” I said.
She folded her arms around herself. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I saw something on his wrist.”
“When?”
She looked at Wade.
He gave no help.
Her eyes closed.
“When I went to see him.”
The storage corridor outside seemed very far away.
My daughter’s visit to Randall had lived in my mind for almost a year as three facts: she went, he refused to explain, she came home crying. I had never pushed her beyond that because I thought I knew what asking would do. She had sat on the edge of my bed that evening, her cheeks raw and pink, and told me, He wouldn’t say anything, Mom.
