She didn’t tremble or cry or do anything that Dalton Hale was clearly bracing himself to deal with as he lowered the boom. But inside she died a little, another tiny piece of herself ripping away to join the other little scraps of soul shrapnel that had come unmoored during the slow unraveling of her marriage. “How long?” she asked, pleased at the uninflected tone of her voice. “She says about three months.” That was about right, she thought, remembering the growing distance between Johnny and her in the months before his murder. In fact, she’d long suspected he might have been unfaithful during her early pregnancy, when her normally sturdy body had betrayed her with dizzy spells and five months of near-constant nausea before she’d regained her strength for the last four months. Johnny had liked the idea of having a baby, but the process had left him feeling peevish and neglected.
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