She looked up. There were tears in her blue eyes.
“Mike! Oh, Mike!” She ran toward him, put her arms around him, and tried to bury her face in Mike’s chest.
“What’s the matter, honey? What’s happened?” He was certain she couldn’t have heard about Mellon’s death yet. He held her in his arms, carefully, tenderly, not passionately.
“He’s crazy, Mike. He’s completely crazy.” Her voice had suddenly lost everything that gave it color. It was only dead and choked.
Mike the Angel knew it was an emotional reaction. As a psychologist, she would never have used the word “crazy.” But as a woman ... as a human being....
“Fitz is still in there talking to him, but he’s—he’s—” Her voice choked off again into sobs.
Mike waited patiently, holding her, caressing her hair.
“Eight years,” she said after a minute or so. “Eight years I spent. And now he’s gone. He’s broken.”
“How do you know?” Mike asked.
She lifted her head and looked at him. “Mike—did he really hit you? Did he refuse to stop when you ordered him to? What really happened?”