Christopher crouched down and unzipped the folder to the first flagged page and pressed a silver pen into my shaking hand, and when he spoke it was in a soft, false, affectionate voice that put ice down my spine.

“Sweetheart,” he said.

“Nobody wants this to get ugly.”

“It got ugly,” I said, looking straight at him, “the second you dragged your wife across the floor eleven minutes after her surgery.

Everything after that is just details.”

His gentle mask dropped.