“I’m sorry, Stella,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry. I should…” I stagger back a step from the bed. “I should go.” No sooner is the word out of my mouth, than she’s reaching out and grabbing hold of me, closing her hand around my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “No! No, I—I don’t—please don’t go,” she croaks. “I was just—I was afraid. I didn’t know who he was. I could only see his back. I thought—I thought he was Kevin.” She has trouble getting the name out.
