Diane looked twenty years older. Her perfect silver bob was flat and messy. She was clutching her purse against her chest with both arms, like a shield.
“Claire,” Ben said. His voice was barely there.
I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, holding the door.
“Please,” he said. “Let us see Evelyn. This is very important. If we don’t, we’re finished.”
I felt something rise up in me. Something hot and furious. It had been sitting under the sadness for three days, waiting.
“You saw her,” I said. “You saw her. Then you threw us out. You put my clothes in trash bags on the lawn. You hid behind a curtain while your newborn daughter sat in the car. Why are you here?”
“I know. I know. Claire, I know—”
“No. You don’t know. You don’t know anything about what the last three days have been like.”
