That’s when I saw it. A box tucked behind his jackets. I pulled it out, curious. It was heavier than I expected.
When I opened it, my heart stopped.
A photo album. And not just any album—prenup photos. Of Denver. And Patricia.
I stared at the glossy images, each one a dagger. Patricia in a white gown. Denver in a black tuxedo. Her smiling at him like a woman in love. Him holding her like a man who had already moved on.
The dates were recent. Just days before the accident. My mouth went dry. My legs threatened to give out beneath me. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply closed the box, and walked it outside.
I told myself I’d already mourned enough.
When I came back in, the scent of garlic and butter wafted through the house. Patricia was in the kitchen, flipping shrimp on the pan like she belonged there. My mother, Paula, and my father, David, were seated at the dining table. Denver was setting out wine glasses, smiling like everything was perfectly normal.
I paused at the doorway.
Patricia turned and beamed at me. “Just in time. I made shrimp pasta. It’s one of Denver’s favorites—and Mom’s.”
We sat down. The plate was set in front of me, steaming, garnished with parsley.