“What happened?”
I held his gaze.
“Chloe died six days ago.”
Beatrice gasped.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Arthur did not move.
I continued.
“Meningococcal meningitis.
I called you one hundred times.”
His face turned pale.
“She…”
“She died forty hours after I took her to the hospital.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, you would have—”
“What?”
My voice rose for the first time.
“Reached you?”
He stumbled backward.
Beatrice whispered, “Arthur, you said she just had the flu.”
I turned toward her.
The words struck me like a physical blow.
“What did you say?”
Beatrice froze.
Arthur’s head snapped toward her.
“Beatrice.”
She looked between us.
“I…”
“What did he tell you?”
I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Beatrice.”
Arthur stepped forward.
“She misunderstood.”
I stared at him.
“Tell me.”
Beatrice’s face had gone white.
“The first night in Miami… he said Chloe was sick.”
My fingers tightened around the rabbit.
