The air left my lungs as if I’d been punched. Ethan was there, pale and hooked up to monitors. His shirt had been cut open, revealing a map of purple and black bruises blooming across his torso.
But I wasn’t looking at his wounds. I was looking at his hand.
His hand was tightly interlaced with the fingers of a woman sitting in the chair beside his bed.
She was young. Maybe twenty-eight. Her blonde hair was matted with rain or sweat, and her mascara was smeared beneath wide, terrified eyes. She was wearing a torn blouse, and she was looking at my husband with an intensity—a familiarity—that stripped me bare.
When she saw me, she gasped and ripped her hand away as if she had been burned.
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