“I have a family. A wife, children. You can’t come back stirring it all up.”

“I was looking for Peter.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes.”

“So you can go then.”

“What makes you think you can tell me what to do?” A knee-jerk reaction.

Abruptly, Marcus pulled in, to the side of the road, to one of the widenings that allowed cars to pass one another. He turned off the radio.

I had thought of things to say to Marcus. There was a speech I’d given in my head. In it, I thanked him for the care he’d taken of me. I acknowledged that what had always been wrong between us had been my fault. That he had tried, and I had failed, but I hadn’t known better, and we had been so young. When I’d pictured it, Marcus had nodded and let me say sorry for being such a nightmare—for the rage and depression, for cheating on him, for not loving him better and not letting him go so he could be with Em. The way I’d pictured it, I hadn’t imagined Marcus saying anything back, speeches were not his style, just him letting me speak, the sense of a weight lifting. I wondered if we might talk about Em. Not about what had been between them, but her, how she had been, that we had loved her, and missed her.

Met with reality, the fantasy evaporated. Marcus had a way of not letting you speak, if what you had to say wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

Beneath his jaw, the skin of his throat was throbbing, like there was something in there, threatening to hatch. In the back, I caught sight of a tarp. A long wooden handle was protruding out from under it.

And I knew. All of a sudden I knew.

I put my hand to the door handle. When it wouldn’t open, I slammed my shoulder against the door.

“Don’t bother. It’s got child locks on.”

It did something to me. Being in a car with a man, not being able to get out. Like someone pinching my windpipe. I stopped moving and went very still inside. I looked down at my hands. On the floor, peeping out from under the seat, was a cuddly toy, a little pink pig I recognized from the Facebook photos, and I wanted nothing more than to go, Wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

“She’d had enough. Back off to London, wanted to be making quilts out of sanitary towels or whatever it was they were doing up there.”

Suddenly I didn’t want him to tell me. Not only because he’d come out with a tarp and a spade in the back of the van, but because there are some things you just don’t want a share in.