Chapter 9: The Razor

Brett's POV

Lorena did not cry in front of the hotel woman.

She told me to leave her studio, and her voice never rose.

She said it the way she told a client the price.

Shelby drove, because my hands weren't steady.

"She'll come around," she said at the first red light. "Give her the week. She needs to feel what it's like to be without you."

"She said she hadn't done anything."

"Of course she did. What was she going to say?"

I wanted that to be enough.

For five weeks it had been enough.

Shelby had shown me the photos one at a time over coffee, always with a worried look and an apology.

Lorena laughing at the bar with Wenger, his head bent toward hers.

Lorena in the Carrington's lobby, a receipt on the table in front of her.

I had never once asked my wife a question about any of them.

I'd packed a bag instead, and I'd built a week to give her room to tell me.

Somewhere in the last two years she had stopped telling me about her days.

She talked to her manager, to clients, to Shelby, and with me she talked about the dishwasher.

I'd told myself that was marriage, until Shelby showed me the first photo.

She hadn't told me.

She'd told me instead that I'd made her pay twenty-eight hundred dollars to move her own shop.

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