He was wearing the navy shirt I bought him last Christmas. She was laughing with one hand on his jaw, leaning in like this wasn’t their first time. They weren’t nervous. They were comfortable. Familiar. Practiced.
I pushed back my chair so hard it scraped across the floor.
A man stepped beside me before I could take two steps.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
I turned, furious. “Excuse me?”
He kept his voice low. “Stay calm. The real show’s about to start.”
He looked about forty, tall, sharply dressed, with the kind of face that had been tense for too long. He nodded toward the woman at my husband’s table.
“My name is Daniel Mercer,” he said. “The woman with your husband is my wife.”
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