“Don’t come here. Do not come here. I’ll explain later.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Ryan spun around.
“No one.”
“You just told someone not to come here.”
“It was work.”
“On Sunday?”
His jaw tightened.
“This isn’t the place, Maeve.”
“You brought our daughter to this hospital because you lied about where you were. This is exactly the place.”
“Lower your voice.”
For years, that phrase had worked on me.
Ryan almost never shouted during disagreements.
He became quieter.
Calmer.
More reasonable.
And somehow I always became the emotional one.
Keep your voice down, Maeve.
You’re upset, Maeve.
We’ll talk when you’re calmer.
Not this time.
“You used our seven-year-old daughter to hide something from me.”
I stepped closer.
“You taught her to lie and told her it was love.”
I looked him directly in the eyes.
“So don’t tell me how quietly I’m allowed to talk about it.”
Then Ryan looked past me.
His face went white.
I turned.
A woman was hurrying toward us.
She looked about thirty-five.
Dark curls pulled into a messy ponytail.
Jeans.
A gray sweatshirt stained with paint.
Her eyes were red from crying.
In one hand she carried a carton of vanilla ice cream.
In the other, a small jar.
“Is Chloe okay?” she asked breathlessly.
“Ryan, please tell me she’s okay.”
Ryan stepped between us.
“Dana. What are you doing here?”
She held up the containers.
“I brought the labels for the doctors. They might need to see the ingredients.”
“You need to leave.”
“I gave her the ice cream,” Dana said. “I put the topping on it. I didn’t know—”
I stepped closer.
“You’re Dana.”
She looked at me.
Concern crossed her face first.
Then confusion.
“You must be Maeve.”
