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I don’t tell Father Joseph that when I lie awake like that, I count my husband’s breaths and match mine to his until the rhythm eventually pulls me under.

“That’s nice,” Father Joseph observes. There’s a glint in his eyes as though he knows I’m holding back. “And how is everyone doing?”

Smiling, I tell him that Vinny’s on the mend and that he’s calling Domenico twice a day and grumbling about coming back to work.

“I bet he’s going stir-crazy.”

Grinning, I nod. “Oh, he definitely is. Yesterday he texted me because he was annoyed with the ending to a TV show I got him hooked on. He swears he’s losing IQ points the more he watches.” I can’t help laughing.

Paolo is doing better as well. He’s in Chicago with Shirley, opting to stay there for his full recovery. He got cleared for air travel this morning, and the two of them were gone only minutes later.

It’s still weird knowing Shirley’s alive. Every time I think about it, it reminds me of the conversation I had with Father Joseph not long after the wedding. He told me to judge Domenico only on what I knew to be true, and, well, I never did, did I?

I guess I did in my own way. I mean, yes, it scared me to think he could easily kill me. Still, I put it aside as much as I could and got to know the man—my husband—beneath the rumor.

But I never asked for clarification or whether the rumors were true. That’s the thing with the truth, isn’t it? It’s so slippery, and if we think we already have it, it’s all too easy to let your opinion, or in my case, rumors, become the truth.

Aside from meeting Shirley that one time in the hospital, I’ve only seen her twice. Both times, we never did more than nod at each other. Even though a part of me is dying to ask her why she left, and how her and Domenico even managed the elaborate lie, I’ve asked neither.

And I’m not going to. Their story is theirs, and if all this death and misery has taught me anything, it’s to treasure the present and look toward the future instead of the past.

Father Joseph clears his throat, and I wonder if I’ve been so lost in my thoughts I’ve missed him saying something. When I turn my face back to him, he smiles warmly.

“The last time I saw you, you mentioned wanting to talk to the CEO of NovaGen. Did you ever do that?”

“I did,” I murmur, nervously brushing imaginary lint from my coat. “Domenico arranged it for me after we got out of the hospital. Roger… um, he isn’t alive anymore, Father Joseph.”

Even though I’ve told myself not to tell anyone this, it’s too big for me to carry around on my own. “I asked Roger why he did what he did, and why he pushed Mom so far. But he… he was a monster. He didn’t care at all and just saw her as a data machine he could pump to get what he wanted.”

Father Joseph moves his hand in front of him, drawing a cross in the air. He studies me for a moment, but he doesn’t ask how Roger died. And I’m grateful for that.

“At the time it seemed important that I asked him if he was the one who left flowers in Mom’s room and got her a better blanket.” I scoff. “At the time, I thought Dad might have done it.”

“And was he?” Father Joseph asks encouragingly.

I shake my head sadly. “No, apparently the nursing staff did that themselves.” I inhale a shuddered breath. “I don’t even know why I assigned it so much meaning back then, or later on. But I did, and in the end, it was nothing. Just one of those things.” I shrug one shoulder.

“Maybe it wasn’t nothing,” Father Joseph says after a lengthy silence. “Maybe you were looking for proof that the wrong people cared. Your mom’s nurses didn’t have to bring her flowers or find her a better blanket, Kira. They simply wanted to.”

“Maybe,” I allow. And I can believe that as long as it wasn’t one of the NovaGen nurses.

I don’t know how long we sit there in companionable silence, but it’s long enough for my legs to grow restless. Just as I’m about to stand and tell Father Joseph I’ll see him after the weekend, he places a hand on my shoulder.

“Will you pray with me before you leave, Kira?”

Even though the water’s cooled, the bathroom is steamy and warm. The air is thick with the vanilla scent from the bath oil I added hours ago. I’ve been in this bath for so long my fingers are pruney and the bubbles dissolved a long time ago, but I couldn’t make myself get out.

Maybe because, for once, there’s nowhere I need to be. No hospital room. No funeral to get through. No crisis waiting for me the second I stand up. Just warm water, silence, and enough time to realize how strange it feels when nothing is actively falling apart.

Of course, the silence also gives my mind far too much opportunity to wander toward my husband.

After Domenico drove us home from Saint Benedict’s, he disappeared into his office to take care of some business. That was—I check the time on my phone—two hours ago.

What could possibly be taking this long?

I stand up, water sluicing off my skin, and grab the towel hanging on the warmer. The towel is soft against my skin. I dry myself slowly, taking my time with each limb, each curve, my fingers tracing the places Domenico’s hands have been.

My hip, where his grip left faint bruises days ago that haven’t fully faded. My throat, where his palm fits as if it were made for me. My inner thighs, still slightly tender from this morning, from the way he’d held me open and licked me until I came so hard I saw stars.