It sounded like such a cold word for the most important miracle of my life.
I looked through the glass again. “If I’d gotten home thirty minutes later…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
He sat beside me. “Claire, I need you to walk me through it again. From the time you got home.”
I stared at the floor tiles, at the thin black line of grout running crooked between them. For a second I couldn’t speak. Then the memory came back in one hard, unbroken wave.
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