I pressed my free hand over my mouth.
The corridor blurred.
There were moments from those six months that returned with sudden, cruel clarity. Marcus calling me at midnight because his knee hurt and he needed ice. Marcus refusing to attend physiotherapy unless I came with him. Marcus snapping at me, then apologising in a voice that made me think pain had made him ugly before healing would make him kind again. Marcus watching me fold his laundry while Vivian’s perfume, faint and sweet, probably still clung to his skin.
He had not simply lied.
He had studied my tenderness and found where to place his weight.
Richard’s reply came flat. “Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because Cade is ruining it.”
“Cade is not your concern.”
“He became my concern when he started undoing wha
