I cannot help it.
The grief in his voice is not fresh or dramatic. It is old and bone-deep and still bleeding into every word.
“They could not save her,” he says. “And the baby was not yet able to survive outside of her.”
A sound leaves me. I press my fingers harder against my lips.
“Mario.”
He looks at me then.
That was the information missing in the articles. That's what reporters were speculating on. The reason for all the privacy.
It wasn’t murder. Of course. It was simply grief.
A wife and baby dead in his home while the world invented uglier stories for the entertainment value.
Shame floods me so hot and fast I feel dizzy.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
His eyes stay on mine.
“For suspecting I was capable of killing my wife?”
“For that,” I say, knowing I have a lot to make up for. “And for what happened with her.”
The words seem so empty and meaningless now, but I owe them to him.
“Are you sorry you’re pregnant?”
My whole body stills at the question.
Whatever else, I owe him complete honesty.
“No,” I whisper.
The answer comes out before fear can interfere.
His gaze drops to my stomach again.
This time, his hand moves slowly, then stops just short of the blanket.
I nod.
His palm settles over my hand, over the place where our baby grows.
It’s warm and heavy and comforting.
My breath catches.
For several seconds, we sit like that, his hand over mine, both of us looking down.
“You said they knew,” he says.
It takes me a minute to understand the statement.
The fake Cindy Sullivan and the man in the park.
