Or rather, that was never his intention.
We had been married for just under four months. Daniel Whitmore was forty-three, polished and handsome in a way that made people trust him too easily. He had built a reputation as a devoted widower raising a disabled son on his own. Eli was twelve—quiet, pale, always in a wheelchair Daniel claimed he needed after a boating accident two years earlier. People sympathized with Daniel. They admired his patience. They admired me for stepping into what they called a difficult life.
I admired myself for believing it.
That afternoon, Daniel said he had to drive into Hartford for a legal meeting and asked if I could stay with Eli for a few hours.
“Just until dinner,” he said. “He hates being alone.”
Of course, I agreed.
Five minutes after his SUV vanished past the iron gate, I was in the kitchen pouring iced tea when I heard the sound of wheels behind me. I turned, expecting to see Eli where I’d left him.
Instead, he stood up.
The glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the tile.
