“Mrs. Whitmore,” the nurse continued, carefully choosing every word, “your husband and his companion are in a highly unusual medical situation. The surgical team believes they were exposed to an industrial bonding compound.”
For several seconds, I sat motionless on the edge of our bed.
The bedroom was dark except for the blue light of my phone.
My husband, Grant Whitmore, had told me he was spending the night in Bellhaven, three hours away, finalizing a municipal redevelopment contract.
The woman with him at the hospital was not a client.
She was not an assistant.
She was Tessa Hart.
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