He shook his head slowly back and forth, eyes wide and disbelieving at the small, motionless body lying in the crib before him.
I never meant to do it.
His bottom lip trembled as he reached down and stroked the tiny arm that lay against the soft cotton sheet, still as wax.
It had only been a slight shake, nothing much.
His brain was still trying to process what had happened: he’d killed his son. His own son.
A slight shake.
He heard the key in the front door. Lucy. Oh my God.
How am I going to explain this?