June shifted slightly in my lap, her tiny fingers tightening around the edge of my shirt collar.

I held my breath for three seconds, waiting for Ethan to raise his voice and deny it, but the room stayed silent except for the faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead.

“Every afternoon at three?” I asked softly.

“Every single day,” Sylvia said, nodding firmly.

“While you were working your twelve-hour shifts at the hospital or running off to your mother’s house to fuss over her, Ethan was sitting at his office desk, panicking because the house was a mess.”

She pulled her leather handbag tighter against her ribs, her knuckles white against the dark strap.