The Marriage Lie(24)

I know Rogers, Sheffield and Shea. Everybody in the South knows Rogers, Sheffield and Shea, after they overturned the 2001 conviction of Troy Coles, a Savannah man sentenced to death for a murder he didn’t commit. I look back down at his name, a name I now remember as the lead attorney in the case. “You’re that Evan Sheffield?”

“Yes, and I’m not the only attorney in the group if that’s what you’re asking. We’ve also got a couple of nurses, a sleep therapist and a handful of doctors. If you have a specific talent or knowledge you’d like to volunteer, let me know in the email. It’s not mandatory, of course. You can always just come and listen.”

“My daughter’s a psychologist,” Mom says, not able to help herself. “Agnes Scott and Emory educated.”

“I’m not sure I’ll do anybody any good,” I quickly add. “I’m kind of hanging by a thread here.”

Evan tries to push up a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “Welcome to the club. Everybody keeps telling me we’ll survive this, but if you ask me, the jury’s still out.” He inhales, pulling himself together. “Anyway, nice to meet you, and I’ll watch for your email.”

He moves on, and I watch him give his spiel to the next person, his shoulders slumped with a weariness that I feel down to my bones. Grief is exhausting, and this man lost two people to my one. Where does he get the energy? My gaze travels to a patch of thick, fluffy grass, and I wonder if I could lie on it, just for a minute.

Dave steps up beside me, sliding an arm around my waist, and I lean into him. I meant it when I told Evan I was hanging by a thread—one that’s frayed enough to give out any second. I also meant it when I told my mother I wanted to go home. Suddenly, leaving is my newest and most urgent goal. I can’t take another person in this parade of mourners.

“Let’s go.”

Dave points across the grass, where they’re setting up giant trays of food on a buffet table. “But—”

“I’m not kidding, Dave. I need you to get me out of here. Now.”

Dave looks over his shoulder, craning his neck. “Okay, but Mom just headed off in search of the bathroom, and I don’t know where James went.” He turns back, gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Hang tight. I’ll go round up the troops.”

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

As soon as he’s gone, there’s another tug on my sleeve. Before I can stop myself, I whip around, my face tightening into a scowl. “What?”

If the man is insulted by my lack of manners, he doesn’t let it show. He smiles, a flash of bright white against coffee-bean skin, and holds up a glass of clear, sparkling liquid. “San Pellegrino. You looked like you could use something cold.”

“Oh.” Guilt surges, and I stretch my mouth into what I hope looks like an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m not usually that much of an asshole, but...” I take the glass from his hand, tip it in his direction. “Thank you. Really.”

“Corban Hayes,” he says. “I’m a friend of Will’s from the gym.”

I sip my water, taking him in over the rim. That this guy spends time at the gym is not exactly news. Tall and lean, with muscles so clearly defined that his veins pop, like black rope standing up on his brown arms. The type of guy who does one-handed pull-ups while chanting eat clean, train dirty to anyone who walks by. Will worked out, but he wasn’t a gym rat. Weights and treadmills were necessary evils, but only so he could eat as many burritos as he pleased. How good of friends could they have been?

“Will gave me shit for putting the weights up in the wrong place. I gave him shit for being so anal. We’ve been buddies ever since.”

I smile despite myself. “That’s Will. He likes order.”

“I’ll say.” Corban’s expression sobers, and he shakes his head. “I’m going to miss that guy bossing me around, harassing me to change my passwords every thirty days. My company migrated over to the AppSec security suite last year, and it was the cleanest, quickest software migration we’ve ever experienced. Will made sure of it, and he didn’t bill me for all the extra hours he spent whipping us into shape. I know AppSec was sorry to see him go.”

I’m already nodding, already murmuring my thanks for his kind words, when the last ones register. “What do you mean, see him go?”

“To the new job. What’s the company’s name again? EPM? TPM? Something like that. I assume that’s why he was on a plane to Seattle, to finalize the contract, no?”

The glass slips from my fingers, dropping onto the bricks with a loud crash. Heads swing in my direction, and something wet stings my shins.

But instead of lurching backward to avoid the mess, Corban springs forward, clamping a palm around my biceps, right as I feel myself sway. “Steady now.”

I open my mouth to tell him to let go, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. The air gets stuck halfway down my throat.

“Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”

My lungs have turned to stone. I can’t make them expand or contract. I suck little sips of air while black dots dance around the edges of my vision. “Can’t...breathe...”

“That’s because you’re hyperventilating. Here.” He steers me toward a shady bench, parks me there. “Hold your breath. I know it feels wrong, but I promise you it’ll help. Hold it for as long as you can, then breathe in through your nose as slowly as possible.” He talks me through a few rounds of this, sitting down next to me and demonstrating with puffed cheeks and exaggerated pulls through flattened nostrils, until my lungs release and the dizziness subsides. “Better?”