“The night I saw you outside the frat house, she and I got into an argument when I got home. An explosive one. She wanted to make it work, wanted to call off the divorce, and I didn’t. The whole fight caught me off guard because it wasn’t like I was the only one who wasn’t happy. Anyway, she was drinking—drunk, actually—and she wasn’t letting it go. Finally, I was able to drill it into her that I wasn’t going to change my mind and she needed to respect it. She stormed off—to her room, I presumed—and I went into my office.”

I twist off the cap of the water bottle, bringing it to my lips and chugging half of it in one go. Partially because my throat feels like it’s coated in sand, but also for something to do. Something to fill the tense silence, because this next part is the part I don’t want to talk about.

The part I haven’t talked about in years.

“She, uh…” My gaze falls to my lap, unable to look at him. “She didn’t go to her room. Well, maybe she did, but she didn’t stay there. She left… she grabbed her keys and her things and left before I could stop her. She had consumed almost two bottles of wine that evening, and you’ve seen her; she was tiny.”

I don’t miss the sharp inhale of breath from him at my use of past tense.

“As soon as I saw her leave, I tried to grab my keys to follow her, but couldn’t find them. I normally always put them on the hook by the front door when I get home, but that day when I got home, she met me at the door, starting the argument. Getting sidetracked, I brought the keys into the kitchen with me, setting them on the counter. It took me a few minutes to find them… not even five fucking minutes, and I was out the door and jumping in the car.”

Cash must sense my dread because he reaches over, placing his warm, steady palm on my thigh. Grounding me. Silently telling me he’s here.

“When I got to the scene, it was too late. She, uh.” The lump in my throat that I’m trying, but failing, to swallow around is growing, as is the burning and pressure building behind my eyes. My eyes slam shut before peeling them open again because the vivid slideshow behind my eyelids is one that haunts me enough in my sleep. “The footage at the stoplights showed Aida blowing through a red light heading east. In doing so, she also swerved, hitting a car that was stopped at the light opposite her, heading west. She was going about forty miles per hour when she made impact.”