He didn’t tell her immediately.
That was the first thing — the thing she noticed three days later when she looked at him across the kitchen table and saw the quality of his stillness was different. Not the controlled professional stillness. Something internal. The stillness of a person processing something alone.
She waited. She had learned, with him, that waiting was sometimes the most useful thing.
On the fourth day she said: “Tell me what Marco told you.”
He looked at her.
“I’ve been watching you think about it for four days,” she said. “You’re not sleeping properly and you’ve been on the phone with Marco every morning at six which is earlier than your usual six-thirty.” She held his gaze. “Tell me.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he set down his coffee.
“The night Daniel died,”
