Chapter 2

I got home and stood in the entryway without turning on the lights.

The smell of food still lingered in the living room.

I'd spent three hours making the meal last night, hoping David would come home and enjoy it.

I walked into the bedroom and opened his side of the closet.

I started gathering the essentials he'd need for the hospital: clean clothes, a towel, and a toothbrush.

As I reached the back of the closet, my hand brushed against a shoebox.

I opened it and found a stack of letters and a scarf inside.

The letters were handwritten, the script neat and delicate, each one beginning with "Dear David."

They were signed "Claire."

The most recent letter was dated three months ago.

I didn't open them.

I put the shoebox back and closed the closet door. Then I grabbed the bag I'd packed and headed out.

By the time I got to the hospital, it was already nine in the morning.

The door to the hospital room was half open, and I could hear voices inside.

Claire's voice was choked with tears. "It's all my fault. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

David's voice was weak but gentle. "It's not your fault. I chose to do it. Don't cry."

"But you lost so much blood. I was so scared."

"It's fine. I'm tough."

I stood in the doorway, holding the bag, listening as my husband talked to her in a way he never talked to me.

For three years, whenever I got sick, all he ever said was "get some rest." Whenever I worked overtime until midnight, he was already fast asleep. By the way, he'd forgotten my birthday twice.

The only gentle thing he ever said to me was "I do" on our wedding day.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Both of them looked up at me at the same time.

Claire was sitting in the chair by the bed, her hand resting on David's.

She saw me walk in, but didn't bother to move her hand.

David looked uneasy for a second, and then quickly pulled himself together. "You're here. Did you bring the stuff?"

"Yeah, I did," I said and set the bag down on the nightstand.

Claire finally pulled her hand away from his arm, stood up, and nodded at me. "Hi, Amanda."

She acted like we'd known each other for years.

I looked at her. Her eyes were red, and her nose was red, too. She really did look like she'd been crying for a long time.

She was beautiful and fragile, and it made my heart ache for her.

I could understand why David would take that knife for her.

"Have a seat," I said.

She shook her head. "I should get going. Take care, David, and get some rest."

As she passed by me, I caught a hint of her perfume. It was a soft, sweet gardenia scent.

After the door closed, the room went quiet.

David looked at me. "Are you upset?"

"No," I said.

"You don't look so good."

"I didn't sleep last night."

He said, "Oh," and didn't say anything else.

After a moment, he said, "The doctor said I'll have to stay in the hospital for at least two weeks, and then I'll need physical therapy after that. My mom's too old to take care of me."

"Yeah?" I replied.

"Claire's pretty shaken up, and she's all alone in this country, so it's not really convenient for her to take care of me."

I waited for him to say it.

And sure enough, he did. "Can you take care of me at the hospital for a while?"

I looked at him, and the way he expected it all so casually made him seem like someone I barely knew.

He threw himself in front of a knife for his ex-girlfriend, and now he was asking his wife to nurse him back to health.

"Okay," I said.

He breathed out, sinking back into the pillow. "You should ask for some time off at work. I can't be left alone these days."

"Okay."

"Oh, and Claire might drop by to see me. Don't give her a hard time."

I stared at him for a solid three seconds.

He shifted, clearly uneasy under my stare. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'll go ask the nurse if there's anything I should know," I said.

Then I stepped out of the hospital room and stood in the hallway.

The window was open, and a chilly breeze drifted in.

I pulled out my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and found Tate Hunter's number.

I'd saved it three months ago.

Back then, I'd found those chat logs on David's phone. I hesitated for a long time, but in the end, I never called.

Today, I stared at that number for a long time. Then I finally hit dial.

"Hello, is this Mr. Hunter? This is Amanda Small. The one who consulted you a while back," I said.

"Hello, Mrs. Small. How can I help you?" Tate said.

"I'm ready to move forward with the divorce paperwork now."