I remembered that month.
I had been sleeping in the guest room. Connor had told friends we were “working through things.” Melinda had visited often. She had brought soup. She had folded laundry. She had sat beside me on the bathroom floor after I found another box of pregnancy tests I had forgotten to throw away.
My eyes lifted to her.
Melinda looked as though she might crumble.
“You were there,” I said.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Connor leaned forward. “Enough. You don’t know what you’re implying.”
Kenneth’s voice remained even. “I know exactly what I’m implying. I’m also stating that the signatures are now being formally challenged.”
Connor’s eyes flashed. “Good luck.”
Then Kenneth said the sentence that made the room stop breathing.
