The house became very quiet.

The only sound was the wind rattling the windowpanes.

I turned toward Maren and the children.

Noah was still weeping, his shoulders shaking.

I wanted to run to them, to hold them, but I knew I was still a stranger to them.

“Maren,” I said, my voice cracking.

She looked at me, her face pale and exhausted.

“They need to go upstairs, Adrian,” she said quietly.

“Of course,” I said.

Maren turned and guided the twins up the stairs, whispering comforting words to them.

I stood alone in the hallway.

My phone buzzed in my hand again.

It was a text message from Celeste.

“The lawyers are asking questions,” the message read.

“The firm’s public relations team says the Boston Globe is about to run a story about your mother.”

“Where are you? We need to issue a statement.”

I stared at the screen, feeling nothing but a dull ache.

My marriage to Celeste had been built on the lifestyle my mother approved of.

Now, that lifestyle was falling apart.

I typed a short reply: “Do what you want. I’m not coming home tonight.”