The corridor outside the debate room was empty, and Alexander walked down it like a man leaving a car wreck.
He didn't remember opening the door. He remembered the sound Emma's chair made hitting the carpet, and the way her voice had gone thin on my mother cried in the bathroom, and then he was in the hall with his hand flat against a trophy case and his breath coming in short, ugly pulls. The glass was cold. Somebody's gold cup looked back at him with his own face stretched across it.
He'd practiced that speech. Twice in the shower, once in the car. Every version had ended with her saying okay. Not I forgive you. Just okay, some small hard nod that meant they could keep going.
"Alex?"
He turned too fast. Victoria stood at the corner with her tote bag on one shoulder and her coat over
