Ben snatched it first.
“It’s private,” he said.
“Is she having a panic attack?” the nurse asked.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You don’t look fine.”
“My sister is in surgery.”
The nurse’s expression softened. “You should sit down.”
Those were almost the same words Ben had used moments before.
I hated them now.
“I said I’m fine.”
The nurses exchanged a glance, then reluctantly returned through the doors, leaving Ben and me alone beneath the humming lights.
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
His jaw tightened.
“How long have you known?”
“Not everything.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Six months,” he said.
The words struck harder than the scream had.
“Six months?”
“Rosie found evidence last winter.”
“And neither of you told me?”
“She wanted to be certain.”
“My mother has been dead for seventeen years.”
“I know.”
“You were at her funeral.”
“I know.”
“You stood beside me while they lowered her coffin into the ground.”
“I know, Claire.”
His voice cracked.
That nearly broke me.
Ben had been my best friend since we were six years old. He had seen me cry when my goldfish died, when I failed my driving test, when my first serious boyfriend cheated on me, and when my mother’s car was found at the bottom of a ravine.
He had never lied well.
But he had hidden this from me for half a year.
And Rosie had hidden it too.
Through the wall came a muffled announcement from the operating room. A cart rattled past the far entrance. Somewhere nearby, a machine began beeping with slow, indifferent regularity.
I pointed at the paper in Ben’s hand.
“Give it to me.”
