Free Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) by Gina Ardito Page B

I lost it. But I supposed I should get used to it.
    Without his bulk as a buffer, I stood tall and faced half a dozen accusatory faces on my own. A few of my coworkers sat around the oblong table, their expressions ranging from shell-shocked to confused. Miranda and Becky had positioned themselves on either side of the doorway leading toward the front of the business, their hands planted on their hips, their mouths set in grim lines. Angry bookends. Dom, his back tilted toward the refrigerator door next to the taped sign that proclaimed the appliance was for food and not biologic specimens, offered a tepid smile.
    “Is it true?” Miranda asked, her tone flat.
    “Is what true?” I wouldn’t answer the question until I knew exactly what she wanted to know. Never assume. A lesson I learned a few years back, thanks to my attorney.
    “You were accused of killing your husband,” Becky chimed in.
    Okay, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. They apparently didn’t want the sugar-coated version. I would appease. “No. I wasn’t. My husband was found shot to death in his car in a dicey neighborhood he had no business being in. When Mr. Pittman was arrested on suspicion of the murder, he implicated me. The defense ran with that tale, claiming David planned his own death with my help, and that I hoped to capitalize on his life insurance payout. In the end, the ploy didn’t work, and Mr. Pittman went to prison where he was serving a sentence of ten to fifteen years until he was murdered by another inmate this past week. There was never any proof I was involved in the crime, and no charges were ever filed against me.”
    “That doesn’t mean you didn’t have something to do with it.”
    “Miranda!” Dom shot her a how-dare-you-look.
    I knew how she dared, the same way all my old friends and neighbors—the same way my parents—dared. In these circumstances, morbid curiosity trumped manners. I faced Dom and held up a hand. “It’s okay. They’re entitled to ask.”
    I turned to the table of coworkers first, found an encouraging nod from our other vet tech, Patrick, and used that mute support to level my steady gaze at Miranda.
    “I was married to David for four years. In that time, he went from a fun, sweet, loving man to a brooding, angry stranger. He closed himself off from me, and I didn’t understand why. I probably should have pushed more, found out what troubled him, but I didn’t. I was working hard to establish my own veterinary practice and I focused all my attention there. That’s an error in judgment I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.”
    “It wasn’t your fault,” Dom interjected.
    I nodded my gratitude, although I knew better. “Rather than confiding in me, David chose to make a dangerous decision. He found Mr. Pittman in some alley and convinced the man to kill him while making it look like a botched carjacking. I like to believe he did so, thinking he was protecting me. In the long run, though, his actions only placed a shadow of doubt over me that I will never climb out from under.” I paused, took a deep breath, allowed my gaze to scan the room, finding supporters and condemners in the mix. “You all are entitled to your opinions. I won’t entertain anyone with more details about ‘my side.’ I will never speak to any reporters about what happened, regardless of what they threaten or promise. And for this, I apologize to you. Because for the next several weeks, you can expect to be pestered every time you come and go from this office. They’ll ask for your theories regarding my guilt or innocence, hope you’ll share tidbits of what I’ve said or done, look for dirt wherever they think they might find it. Let me assure you that if no one tosses them any red meat, they’ll get bored and leave soon enough.”
    “What if we want to talk to the press?” Valerie asked, her expression sharp and lupine.
    I stared down at my hands, twisting them round each other. “I can’t