Part One: The Phone Call
At 2:18 in the morning, a woman from Mercy St. Catherine Hospital called to tell me that my husband had been admitted to the emergency room with another woman.
That should have been the most devastating part of the conversation.
It wasn’t.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” the nurse continued, carefully choosing every word, “your husband and his companion are in a highly unusual medical situation. The surgical team believes they were exposed to an industrial bonding compound.”
For several seconds, I sat motionless on the edge of our bed.
The bedroom was dark except for the blue light of my phone.
My husband, Grant Whitmore, had told me he was spending the night in Bellhaven, three hours away, finalizing a municipal redevelopment contract.
The woman with him at the hospital was not a client.
She was not an assistant.
She was Tessa Hart.
My younger brother’s wife.
I pressed one hand against my chest and forced my voice to tremble.
“Are they conscious?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are they together?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Which floor?”
“The emergency surgical wing.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
I ended the call but did not move.
Grant’s side of the bed was untouched. His navy suit was gone from the closet. The silver watch I had given him on our second anniversary was missing from the dresser.
