Only in Holywood do people pull open a few drawers, stuff crumpled clothes into a suitcase, and slam out the front door. In Jackson Heights, it was day two. Carla’s face showed she hadn’t slept on either of them. Without makeup and straggling unbrushed hair, she looked so much older than her thirty-six years. Adam searched for his shaver charger, a green project file for an upcoming presentation, and the photographs of his parents’ anniversary trip. And, all the while, Carla followed him into each room, pleading with him to stay. She knew he was choking up when she resorted to mentioning their daughter Jessie. It was callous, but she was desperate. If making him feel guilty was her only remaining weapon, she was going to use it. She begged him. ‘Please, Adam, insist they do the tests again.’ Afraid to look at her, he carried on putting papers into…
