Lydia didn’t say anything.
“He kept that promise,” I said. “He actually kept it.”
I heard the front door open.
Footsteps. Fast. Hurrying down the hall.
The same footsteps I’d been listening to for twenty years. I’d know them anywhere.
Then Nigel was standing in the office doorway.
I saw him. Standing there. In the doorway of his own office. Still in his scrubs, wrinkled and stained. His hair sticking up on one side. His face blotchy from crying.
He looked at the open drawers. At the folder in front of me. At the yellowed piece of notebook paper in my hand.
He went completely still.
“Lyd,” I said into the phone, not taking my eyes off him. “I need to go. He’s here. I’ll update you.”
“Listen to him,” she said quickly. “Promise me.”
I ended the call without promising.
And I glared at my husband.
