Behind the double doors at the end of the hall, my younger sister was fighting for her life. Surgeons were trying to deliver her premature twins while repairing damage caused by a placental abruption. Less than twenty minutes earlier, Ben had been sitting beside me with his elbows on his knees, whispering Rosie’s name as though repeating it could keep her alive.
Then he had dragged me into this corridor and told me the truth about their marriage was “much worse” than anything I feared.
I had imagined greed.
Inheritance.
Pity.
Even the possibility that he had married Rosie because he had once loved me and wanted to remain near me.
I had not imagined murder.
One of the nurses bent to retrieve the paper.
Ben snatched it first.
“It’s private,” he said.
“Is she having a panic attack?” the nurse asked.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You don’t look fine.”
