For a moment, my dead husband said nothing. He looked toward our house through the windshield, eyes wet, breathing shallow. Then he turned back toward the camera.
“If she comes after me,” recorded Randall said, “you move me.”
Behind me, Elise made a tiny sound.
Randall scrubbed both hands over his face. “I don’t care if she hates you too. I don’t care if the kids hate you. If Meryl learns where I am before her doctors tell you the chemo is working, she does not get through the door.”
Wade on the screen was not visible, but his voice came from somewhere near the passenger side. “You’re asking me to physically keep your wife away from you.”
“I’m asking you to keep her alive.”
“You don’t know she’ll stop treatment.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I know her.”
The certainty in Randall’s voice hurt more than if he had shouted.
