Part 2 — What Ben Had Been Hiding thief
“He’s upstairs.”
“Why?”
Arnold hesitated tools.
“Because he asked us not to contact you.”
I felt as though someone had slapped me.
“Not to contact me?”
He nodded slowly.
“He specifically told us that if you came looking for him, we should—”
He stopped.
“Should what?”
“Give him time.”
I laughed.
It was an ugly, humorless sound.
“Give him time?”
I looked down at the lunch bag in my hand.
The apple pie suddenly seemed ridiculous.
I had spent twenty minutes slicing the apples exactly the way he liked them. I had rewritten my little note twice because the first version sounded too serious.
Now I was standing in the hospital while my husband was apparently hiding from me.
“Arnold,” I whispered, “what is happening?”
