I stared at him. “Raleigh.”
“Yes.”
“Three hours away.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Wade looked toward the letter in my hand.
I followed his gaze and nearly tore the pages in half.
“This?” I shook them at him. “He gets to explain himself with stationery?”
“He wrote it because he knew he wouldn’t be here.”
“He made damn sure of that, didn’t he?”
Wade flinched.
I saw it.
Not grief. Not exactly.
Guilt.
My breathing slowed.
“Sit down,” I said.
“Meryl—”
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
That frightened me more than if he had argued.
Wade took the chair beside the hall table, the one Randall used to sit on when he put on his work boots years ago, before retirement had turned our mornings slow. I stayed standing because sitting felt too much like surrender. The paper trembled in my hands, and I flattened it against the wall until the shaking eased enough to read.
