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She looked at the man she had married and felt something inside her go very still. Not hollow. Not shattered. Still. As if everything unnecessary had simply stopped moving, and what was left was only what had always mattered.
Ryan, she could tell, had expected something. He had positioned himself in the kitchen doorway with the particular posture of a man who had prepared for an audience. He had expected tears, or volume, or the kind of fracturing grief that could be gathered up later and used as evidence. He came from a family that collected evidence. His mother kept a running catalog of Claire’s failures, small and large, and brought them out at Sunday lunches like items from a list. His father treated every room he entered as a transaction to be dominated. Ryan had learned from both of them.
He was ready for the scene. He had probably scripted it.
So she gave him nothing.
