And now I’d asked whether there was a child, and he’d paused.
I hated myself for connecting those things.
But once the thought existed, I couldn’t get rid of it.
Ben’s car pulled in.
He came through the door without removing his shoes.
“Where is it?”
“Your office.”
He looked at me.
“Did you open it?”
“No.”
His shoulders dropped.
Relief. Actual relief.
That hurt.
We went upstairs.
He stopped when he saw the stain. “Oh, no.”
Not angry. Sad.
He crouched beside the desk and took a small key from his wallet.
I stared.
“You carry the key?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
He didn’t answer. He unlocked the drawer.
Inside was a soaked cardboard box.
On top sat a cracked glass bottle shaped like a flamingo.
Pink liquid leaked from it.
Cheap perfume.
Under were photographs.
Dozens.
Some protected in plastic sleeves.
Others damp around the edges.
A girl appeared in almost every one.
