He told me he knew Gretchen and I had been in a cold war for the past week. He'd come to the house specifically to sit us both down and talk things through.
But when I got home and pushed open the door, I found him collapsed on the floor, one hand clutching his throat, breathing in sharp, ragged bursts.
A textbook acute cardiac episode.
I got his medication into him immediately, but the color in his face didn't improve. He needed a hospital.
I called my personal physician.
He didn't pick up. Instead, he sent a text.
My wife had given him a direct order. He was to examine Cecil Fox's injuries today.
I stood frozen, anger surging through me. This was exactly why my wife and I had been at each other's throats lately.
Cecil Fox.
Ever since he'd joined the company, Gretchen had been coming home later and later. Every time I asked, she gave me the same excuse: working late.
Then, one week ago, I'd waited for her downstairs on purpose. I looked up at her office window, and there, backlit against the floor-to-ceiling glass, were two bodies tangled together in a frenzy.
When she finally came home, I confronted her. She accused me of being paranoid.