Ben didn't miss the expression that showed briefly on her face before she looked down at the dog. His arrow had found its mark: she was devastated. A part of him, even now, wanted to apologize, but he tamped the feeling down until she'd answered his question.

The white noise stopped when she confirmed it. He was left feeling... he wasn't even sure. Tired, mostly, he supposed. He didn't miss Art's look, or the meaning behind it, but having drawn the admission out of her, Ben believed it. He couldn't have said why — Art was right, he had every reason to be suspicious of the news, particularly given the timing of it — but he believed her.

He stood for a moment, not sure what to say next. Part of him wanted to go and force himself in next to her on the couch and put his hand on her stomach, just to have some physical sensation to accompany this newly resolute belief that his baby was in there, somewhere — but after what he'd just done it was hardly fair to expect that she'd let him. And it was unfair to have a moment like that, that level of intimacy, if he was only going to leave her once he was sure.

(Was he still planning on leaving her?)

His shoulders slumped; the anger and panic that had been carrying him through the afternoon since he'd heard the words leave Mrs. Finch's mouth had gone. "Were you going to tell me?" he asked, feeling small. "You let me leave. Yesterday."