His jaw tightened.
“How long have you known?”
“Not everything.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Six months,” he said.
The words struck harder than the scream had.
“Six months?”
“Rosie found evidence last winter.”
“And neither of you told me?”
“She wanted to be certain.”
“My mother has been dead for seventeen years.”
“I know.”
“You were at her funeral.”
“I know.”
“You stood beside me while they lowered her coffin into the ground.”
“I know, Claire.”
His voice cracked.
That nearly broke me.
Ben had been my best friend since we were six years old. He had seen me cry when my goldfish died, when I failed my driving test, when my first serious boyfriend cheated on me, and when my mother’s car was found at the bottom of a ravine.
He had never lied well.
But he had hidden this from me for half a year.
And Rosie had hidden it too.
