He reached Wendy in two strides, took Paige’s car seat from her arm so gently it felt like a prayer, then put one steady hand at Wendy’s elbow and one at her back. “Stay with me,” he murmured. “Don’t try to talk. I’ve got you.”
He opened the passenger door, helped Wendy lower herself in inch by inch, adjusted the seatbelt away from her abdomen, then shut the door with deliberate care. Through the window Wendy saw his expression when he turned back toward the porch.
It was not rage.
It was verdict.
Philip finally got out of his recliner and came to the doorway, perhaps sensing too late that the balance of the morning had shifted. He put on the voice older men use when they want outrage to sound like reason. “Now look, Mitchell,” he began. “We just thought since Cheryl is—”
“Shut up, Philip,” Mitchell said.
The silence that followed rang.