Charles didn’t really look much different than he had the previous day, pale and shrunken in the bed, bony limbs nearly lost in the sheets and blankets. But his eyes were unfocused and his breathing was labored, and it was painful to look at him.
Eleanor sat in the chair by the head of the bed, one of Charles’s hands in hers. She looked…flawless, actually, like a soon-to-be widow from a TV drama rather than real life.
A handful of years ago, Andy would have scorned her for that, for caring so much about what other people saw. For catering to the demands of her status rather than allowing her real emotions rein.
But now…Charles had always prized her beauty. He’d bragged of it often, building himself up by making much of his wife’s appearance. And now he was dying. Andy didn’t think Charl
