you think you do.
It was the same tone Cullen must have used when he told his wedding guests I was unwell. I could hear it now. Concerned. Gentle. Poisonous.
“Laurelai,” I said. “Did you take my husband’s photograph off the mantel?”
Silence on the line.
“I was staging the house,” she said finally. “For the welcome home. It needed a fresher look. I didn’t throw anything away.”
“You put him in a junk drawer. Face down. Under a phone book.”
“I’m not going to apologize for decorating.”
“No,” I
