That was the best thing she said all morning.
I nodded.
She left.
The door closed.
Emily and I remained in the room.
Strangers connected by a dead man who had loved both of us in different ways and failed both of us through the same instinct.
Secrecy.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Emily looked toward the coffee machine.
“Can I make some?”
The question was so ordinary I nearly laughed.
“Yes.”
She stood.
Then stopped.
“How does Michael—”
She caught herself.
“How did he take it?”
That sentence hit me.
“You know?”
“He drank it black.”
I nodded.
“So did I.”
Emily smiled faintly.
“Mom said you hated it.”
“I do.”
That was our first shared fact.
Small.
Harmless.
Nothing hidden inside it.
She made two coffees anyway.
Mine had milk.
We sat by the window.
I asked about her life.
Not the secret.
Her.
Work.
