They’d been here four hours, and they’d already arranged the furniture.
Mark was sitting at my kitchen table.
Vanessa was standing by the window with her arms crossed.
A second officer, a woman with a ponytail and a notepad, stood near the hallway.
Mark looked up when I walked in.
And then he smiled.
That smile. I knew it better than I knew my own face. The patient, slightly wounded smile he used when he wanted me to understand that I was being unreasonable but he was too generous to say so.
“Di,” he said. “Finally. Can we please talk about this like adults?”
I didn’t answer.
“Look,” he said, standing up. “I know this is a shock. I know you’re emotional. That’s understandable. But you’re making this a lot bigger than it needs to be. We had an agreement.”
“We didn’t.”
“Diane.” He sighed. As if I were a child who’d spilled juice. “We talked about this. You don’t remember, but we did. You were feeling guilty about how things ended, and you said—”
