He smiled.
“How do you feel?”
“Terrible.”
“That’s because you’re fighting too hard.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He kissed my forehead.
“I mean you need rest.”
At the time, I told myself I had misheard him.
That became difficult an hour later.
After Gregory left, a nurse named Hannah Miller approached my bed.
She closed the door.
Then she asked:
“Mrs. Palmer, I need to ask you something delicate. Do you completely
trust your husband?”
A chill moved through me.
“Why?”
Hannah glanced toward the hallway.
“Yesterday I heard him talking on the phone near the staff entrance.”
I waited.
“He called a woman ‘my love.’”
My stomach tightened.
Hannah continued.
“He said it wouldn’t be long. He said soon they wouldn’t have to hide
anymore.”
I wanted to dismiss it.
Gregory had been taking care of me for weeks.
When the nausea began, he made chicken broth.
