I showed up at the hospital to surprise my husband during his shift. But the second one of his coworkers saw me, all the color left his face. Then his eyes filled with tears. “He hasn’t said a word to you, has he?” Ben and I had been married eleven years, and for every one of those years, I had shared him with the hospital. He was a remarkably gifted surgeon.

“Well, look who’s decided to join our little negotiation,” Walsh said smoothly, giving me a condescending smile.

“Brian, get away from that porch right now and come home with me,” I said, climbing the stone steps.

Brian didn’t turn around, his fingers clutching a thick white envelope and a typed legal document.

“He’s offering two hundred fifty thousand dollars in cash, Hannah,” Brian said in a flat, empty voice.

“That’s more than enough to refill our retirement account, pay off the home equity loan, and let us move to another state.”

“All your husband has to do is sign this formal admission of surgical error and give up his medical license voluntarily,” Walsh put in.