“So you think I killed her because of my drinking? That the other six of you who also drank the shots of tequila that night weren’t responsible at all?”

“That is not what you asked. I protected you because of that. So did they. You asked a question. I answered it. I don’t have anything left to give. And I need you to leave. I don’t want you here if you don’t want to be here. Go to her. Leave.”

She turned away from him and sat back down at the sewing machine.

“Nick, why do you love me?” she asked without looking up.

“What?”

She kept her face down. “Only fair—you asked me. Why do you love me?”

He backed away. He had no answer at all.

She stood and grabbed his arm. “You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I love you—completely. You only loved me for the way I loved you. You never really loved me back. You only loved what I did for you—how I loved you.”

The bitter taste of truth rose in the back of his throat; he was ashamed, humiliated that Eliza had to be the one to tell him this truth. He had never been able to accurately define his feelings, but even he had not recognized this fact. His love was built on the fragile basis of how she loved him. He turned away from her.

“When you found out that I hid the telegrams, you believed I screwed up, and the last of your love for me disintegrated. Do you know how exhausting it’s been all these years, trying so damn hard not to screw up so that you’d keep on loving me?” She choked on a sob. “Go, Nick. Now.”

Her footsteps echoed up the stairs as she walked away. “Eliza.” Her words wrapped around his throat and sorrow rose.

“Go, Nick.”

He turned away from his wife, walked to the front door of his house and kicked the baseboard as the smells and sights of his home assaulted him with blinding force.

He walked out the front door, across the lawn to the driveway, and climbed into his pickup truck. He sat for a long time, head back against the headrest. Eliza had told the truth, and it was humiliating, distasteful. He could rationalize his yearning for Amy, but Eliza’s declaration of how little he actually loved her, how poorly he’d loved, mortified him.

Now he knew what his wife had said when she’d first discovered Amy Reynolds was Amy Malone, the words she’d mumbled as she’d walked into the bathroom. He heard them now as plainly as if she spoke them into the window of his truck. Now we’ll pay for what we’ve done.