“Did he?” Frank asked.
“He said she loved expensive cars,” I said. “Did you ever meet her?”
Frank put his glasses back on, adjusting them slowly as he looked out at the hum of traffic on Highway One hundred and one.
“Ryan had a lot of acquaintances before he met you,” Frank said, his voice dry and gravelly.
“Let us talk about the rehearsal dinner instead.”
I did not touch the pastry.
Why did Frank look so uncomfortable at the mention of Portland?
The afternoon fog rolled off the bay, pressing a grey dampness against the living room windows.
I sat on the sofa with our old college photo album open on my lap.
In the photograph, Hannah stood next to me in front of the campus library, her oversized designer sunglasses perched on her head, her smile wide and bright.
The betrayal felt cold and heavy in my chest.
