“I guess we’ll see,” I said.
I turned and walked upstairs.
My hands did not shake when I picked up my suitcases.
That surprised me.
I had imagined this day a hundred times, and in every version I was trembling.
Instead, I was steady.
When I came back downstairs, Diane was whispering into her phone, no doubt preparing the social version of events.
Richard stood at the window looking toward the drive.
Evan had disappeared briefly and returned with his own phone in hand, already drafting some private narrative in which he would be the wounded husband betrayed by an unstable woman.
