She wasn’t missing anything tonight.
“Don’t,” Hannah whispered, her voice a rough murmur beneath the clinking of cocktail glasses. “Not here. Not like this.”
I stared at her, my lungs burning. My entire chest felt like it was housing one long, sustained scream that couldn’t break the surface.
“I’ve been watching them for twenty minutes,” Hannah continued, her eyes flickering toward the bar before snapping back to me. “They come here, I’d wager, once a week. They always take that same corner seat. They always pay in cash.” She held my wrist for a fraction of a second longer, grounding me. “If you march over there right now, all you get is a pathetic public scene. He’ll gaslight you and deny it. She’ll manufacture tears. You will lose every tactical advantage you currently hold.”
Hannah looked at me with a terrifying, steady clarity. “Go home. Look at everything. Then call me.” She pressed a heavy, embossed business card into my trembling palm.
I looked down at the card. Then, I forced myself to look back at the bar. Thatcher threw his head back, laughing warmly at something Claudine had said, his hand resting possessively on the brass rail of her barstool. He was entirely at ease, completely oblivious to the fact that his wife was standing fifteen feet away, her world collapsing into dust.
I turned on my heel and walked out through the automatic glass doors, disappearing into the humid Carolina night without making a sound.
The drive home was a blackout. I have a fragmented memory of a red stoplight glaring at me on Providence Road , and a country radio station whining something about a fiddle. I remember pulling into my driveway, killing the engine, and sitting in the suffocating darkness of the garage. The elaborate floral arrangements were still buckling in the backseat.
The house was eerily silent and dark. Thatcher was stil
