“She was leaving a house belonging to a man she should not have been with. It took a long time to get a confession from the man who was with her. It ruined his life, too. His wife and children left him and moved to Brazil. The whole thing was horrible, so horrible.”

“You did this to save Nick?”

“Yes.” Eliza stood and looked down at Amy. “Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

“He came home the morning you got lost, told me what happened, and left. I haven’t seen him since.”

“No . . . I have no idea.”

“You will. He’ll come to you. When he does, tell him—”

“No.” Amy held up her hand.

“I don’t blame you, Amy.”

“I do.”

And she did. She blamed herself and the stain spread wider, longer, deeper as Eliza walked out the door.

The bedroom at home looked empty, although it wasn’t. The sleigh bed she and Phil had bought together in Charleston was still there, made up with the faded-flower Irish quilt and tossed pillows. The bench, clean laundry piled on it, sat in the same spot against the wall. The book she’d left a million lives ago still lay on the bedside table.

Phil carried her bag into the room. She stopped in the doorway. All of his familiar belongings that had once made her feel secure were gone: no tray of coins and pens on the dresser, no suit coat over the chair. She swung around; his bedside table was empty, dusted clean. Abandonment and panic rode on a trail of muscles beginning in her hands, and numbness spread through her body.

Phil looked up from the bed where he was unpacking her hospital suitcase in small, neat piles.

“You left.” She walked into the room and leaned against the dresser as the isolation, the separation, weakened her.

“What?” He looked up.

“Your stuff . . . it’s gone. You left.”

“No, I just moved into the guest room. I thought you might want me to . . . leave the room. I wanted to give you some time to rest.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want you to . . . sleep in there. I will. If you want to be away from me, I’ll sleep in there. I can’t have you leave . . . our bedroom.” She folded her hands over her face as the enormity of what she’d done, long looming on the horizon and avoided in the thrumming machinery of the hospital, approached with immense weight.

“No, Amy. I’ll stay in there for now.”

She sat on the side of the bed next to him and held up her hand. “Can we talk?” She didn’t know what she was going to say, she just had to say or do something.

“When you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.” She dropped her hand.

He looked at her and shook his head. “No, you’re not.”