““You don’t understand.” He opens the drawer at the bedside table and takes out a frame, staring at it—talking to it, more than to me. I look at Eric Hammond and I can see the man he used to be. Strong and straight—noble, even, before the weight of life bent him in half, turned him into the sad sack of bones he is now. “You’re wrong,” I say softly. “I do understand.” Then my voice turns fierce. “I just don’t care. Not about you.” I point towards the door. “I have stood by and watched you break that girl’s heart every day for the last six weeks, and I’m not watching it anymore.””
