I assumed it had been lost.
Now it was in my husband’s tuxedo.
Attached to it was a small plastic tag.
An old case number.
A date.
The night of my crash.
“No.”
Daniel moved behind me.
I turned.
He was awake.
His face changed when he saw my hand.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
I whispered:
“What is this?”
He sat up slowly.
“Claire.”
“What is this?”
“I can explain.”
“You told me you knew nothing about my crash.”
He looked down.
“I lied.”
The room became silent.
I removed wedding ring.
Placed it on table.
Daniel stared.
“You said I would take it off.”
His eyes filled.
“I deserved that.”
“Start talking.”
He did.
Not quickly.
Not cleanly.
But he did.
The night of my crash, Daniel had not been working.
He had been driving home from his mother’s house.
His younger brother, Ryan, had borrowed Daniel’s pickup earlier that
