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The American Wife
The American Wife
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The American Wife

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“Lane, please be you.” She focused on the windshield, breath held.

“Are you all right, dearie?” a woman called. It was her elderly neighbor, leaning out from behind her screen door. “I was just watering my pansies in the window when I saw you take a fall.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll be fine.” Maddie flung the reply behind her.

“I have some peroxide if you scraped yourself up. You remember what I told you about my nephew’s ankle, after he didn’t care for it properly. Ended up almost dying in the hospital.”

No matter how dire the situation, Maddie knew better than to entrap herself in the house of a person who took pride in enumerating worst-case scenarios.

“I appreciate the offer. But I’ll be okay.” Maddie stretched her neck toward the street.

“What are you doing out here, exactly? If you pardon my asking.”

“Just waiting for … a friend,” she said, at last determining that Lane—thank goodness—was the driver behind the wheel.


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