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CONTINUATION
“Eight years ago?” I repeated, feeling my knees grow weak. “But my husband died eight years ago.”
One of the police officers nodded.
“That’s exactly why we’re here. Your children are concerned that this encounter could cause you considerable emotional distress.”
I looked at Daniel.
He was standing in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest. There was no trace of the cheerful man I’d met that morning.
“Daniel, did you know my husband?”
He slowly raised his head.
“Yes, Margaret.”
“How?”
“From the hospital.”
The moment I heard that word, memories of a night eight years earlier came flooding back.
My husband, Thomas, was sixty-five when he was admitted to the hospital with serious heart problems.
The doctors fought to save his life for several days.
Then they told me his condition had suddenly deteriorated.
I remembered my last visit. Thomas had smiled weakly, taken my hand, and said:
