covered the upper part of my arm and shoulder.
It wasn’t a tiny mark.
It looked as though someone had grabbed me hard.
I stared at it for several seconds, trying to remember the night before.
Nothing.
I hadn’t fallen. I hadn’t bumped into anything. I had gone to bed beside George around ten-thirty, read for twenty minutes,
and fallen asleep. That was all I remembered. I walked into the kitchen. George was standing at the counter making coffee.
“George.”
He turned. I pulled my sleeve aside.
“Where did this come from?”
The moment he saw the bruise, his face changed. It was only for a second. But after forty-eight years, one second is enough.
He knew something.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Too quickly.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
He turned back toward the coffee.
“Maybe you hit something in your sleep.”
“There’s nothing beside the bed.”
He picked up
