“Just out,” he replied quietly.
“For three hours?” I questioned, searching his exhausted face.
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“I needed air,” he claimed softly.
“You can barely walk through the local grocery store without stopping to rest,” I reminded him, pointing toward his heavy coat. “What is in your jacket?”
“Nothing,” he insisted smoothly.
“Those are papers,” I pointed out, noticing the thick edges sticking out of his inner pocket.
“Gemma,” he sighed softly, reaching out to touch my arm.
“And you were on your laptop at two this morning,” I added, feeling the anxiety rising in my chest.
He kissed my forehead tenderly. “Please don’t interrogate the dying man.”
“I hate that joke,” I whispered, closing my eyes for a brief moment.
“I know,” he replied softly.
“Whatever you are doing, you can tell me,” I begged him gently.
