He did not rage.
Men like Corbin do not rage at the moment of impact; the rage comes later.
In that moment he only looked, for the first time all evening, like a person rather than an institution — like a son who had done something to his mother that he was not sure could be undone.
From the leather chair, Taylor watched the grown-ups with open bewilderment, plainly unable to understand why they made simple things take so long.
“Are you still sad now?” she asked Marguerite.
The old woman looked at the child, and for the first time in six months a real, unforced smile broke across her face.
“A little less now, sweetheart,” she said.
“A little less.”
Chapter 12 — Sometimes Children Understand
Corbin turned to Adrienne, standing tense by the door with her sleeping-eyed daughter now leaning against her leg.
“Did you see these?” he asked, nodding at the documents.
“I didn’t mean to look at anything, sir,” Adrienne said honestly.
“Your mother opened the envelope.
I only stayed because my daughter wouldn’t leave the room.”