42 that evening. I knew because I’d been sitting among moving boxes on the bedroom floor when the front door crashed shut and his footsteps hurried across the foyer and up the stairs.
“Claire!”
I continued folding a sweater. He filled the doorway, still in yesterday’s white shirt, without his tie, hair disheveled, his face drained of color by anger. I’d witnessed his temper aimed at employees, rivals, his father, and once a waiter after a client’s booking was misplaced. Usually he was icy and calculating. Tonight, beneath the fury,
