That was how long it took for Greg to stand in the kitchen of the house she had painted, cleaned, decorated, and filled with birthdays, science fair posters, and Christmas stockings, and tell her she had to leave by Friday.
He didn’t raise his voice. That was the worst part.
Greg Whitman had always saved his calmest tone for his cruelest decisions.
“The paperwork’s final,” he said, sliding a manila folder across the granite countertop as if he were handing her an invoice. “The attorney already explained everything.”
Claire stared at the folder without opening it. Outside the kitchen window, the sky above their subdivision in western Pennsylvania had the flat gray look of February steel. Their son Eli was upstairs, and every instinct in her body told her to keep her voice low.
“You told me we’d talk about the house,” she said.
“We did talk.”
