I looked at Connor.
He did not look away.
That frightened me more than if he had.
“You knew,” I said.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You’re confused.”
“No.” My voice was soft, but steady. “I’m not.”
Kenneth placed a third paper on the table.
“This,” he said, “is the release authorization dated three months before your divorce was finalized.”
The date glowed on the page.
I remembered that month.
I had been sleeping in the guest room. Connor had told friends we were “working through things.” Melinda had visited often. She had brought soup. She had folded laundry. She had sat beside me on the bathroom floor after I found another box of pregnancy tests I had forgotten to throw away.
My eyes lifted to her.
Melinda looked as though she might crumble.
“You were there,” I said.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
