And something in it stopped him cold.
Because it wasn’t the face of the wife he’d dr*gged. It wasn’t small, or soft, or afraid. It was a face he’d never seen in eleven years of marriage, and somewhere underneath his panic, I watched him begin to recognize it — the face from a photograph on a wall in a building downtown, the face of the woman whose name used to make defense attorneys nervous.
“Hello, Garrett,” I said.
“Camille, whatever’s happening, we can fix it, we can— I made a mistake, okay? I made a terrible mistake, Bianca meant nothing, I was confused, I—”
“You dr*gged me,” I said. Calm. Flat. “Last night. You put something in my tea so you could rob our home and leave the country without me waking up. Let’s start there, with what you actually did, instead of ‘mistakes.'”
His mouth opened and closed.
