He looked at me, fear visible in his eyes.
“It was an accident,” he whispered. “We were arguing. Elaine fell down the stairs. Neighbors heard us shouting. I found her at the bottom… not moving.”
My chest tightened. “And they suspected you.”
“They thought I might have done it,” he said quietly. “They questioned me for weeks. Picked apart everything. Every glance said the same thing — they didn’t believe me.”
“So you ran.”
“I collapsed,” he replied. “I couldn’t breathe in that house anymore. I felt her everywhere. Susan blamed me — and I don’t fault her for that.”
I remembered Susan’s worn expression, the guarded way she spoke. “You left her to deal with it alone.”
“I know,” he whispered. “That guilt never faded.”
“And still, you married me,” I said. “You built another life.”
“I didn’t plan it,” he said quickly. “Years later, I met you. I convinced myself I was different — that if I was steady, faithful, honest with you, it would somehow make up for the past.”
“But you weren’t honest,” I said.
He nodded. “I was scared. Scared you’d see me as a man who ran from grief.”
A short, bitter laugh escaped me. “I see a man who ran from responsibility.”
His eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”
And to my surprise, I believed him.
I took a breath. “There’s more.”
His face hardened. “You found Susan.”
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