My stomach dropped. “Are you two together?”
“I was going to tell you.”
Greg stepped forward. “Hannah…”
“I asked her.”
Rachel swallowed. “Yes. For almost three months.”
Greg rubbed a hand over his face. “Can we stop doing this on the porch?”
“No.” I looked straight at him. “You lied to me about where you were. You lied to Rachel about our marriage. And you taught our six-year-old to keep both of those lies for you.”
“She didn’t ask for any of this.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
He didn’t answer.
“And tomorrow?” I asked. “Were you going to drive home, kiss Leo, unpack your suitcase, and wait until your next business trip to come back here?”
“I didn’t tell you because you couldn’t handle something this complicated,” Greg finally said.
“Think about Leo.”
There was that word again. Complicated.
For eight years, Greg had used it whenever he wanted me to stop asking questions. Leave the complicated stuff to me. And for eight years, I’d let him mistake my silence for ignorance.
