The thing that haunted him, that left his stomach in toxic knots, his food like ashes on his tongue, was that she’d kept it, silent, hidden, while watching his business crumble around him. That she had comforted him even, while all the time she’d held the wherewithal to make it better, the one thing she’d said she believed in, the one thing they both knew he could do. Given time. And a bit of luck. The fact that she’d lied to him again made him feel physically sick. It was worse than the discovery of her infidelity, because this time he had allowed himself to trust her again, had forced himself to overcome his fear, his distrust, and placed himself in her hands. This time it could not be ascribed to her dejection, her insecurities. This time it was about what she thought of him. If she’d wanted him to know about it, she would have told him. That was the incontrovertible fact that Hal returned to, hour after feverish hour, the fact that stopped him from confronting her, demanding answers of her.
