An hour later, a nurse came in with the discharge papers. She gave me a sympathetic look. “All set. Honey, is your husband parking the car?”
“He had a prior engagement,” I said, my voice unnaturally flat. “I’ll need a taxi.”
The process of leaving was a blur of pain and humiliation. I shuffled slowly, my body screaming in protest.
A nurse helped me into a wheelchair. Liam in my arms, a small bag of our things at my feet.
We descended to the main entrance. The evening air of New York was cool, a shock after the climate controlled hospital.
The doorman helped me into the backseat of a yellow cab that smelled of stale air freshener and old leather. I gave the driver the address to our building on Central Park West.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, my phone buzzed. A photo from Tristan.
A beautifully plated dish of scallops. The lights of the restaurant soft and glamorous in the background.
The caption, “Wish you were here. The scallops are incredible. Exo.”
A sob caught in my throat. I opened the Find My app on my phone.
A little pulsing dot showed the location of my phone. Another dot labeled Bentley was stationary. I zoomed in on the map.
There it was right on West 51st Street. Lou Bernardine.
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