The wind caught the collar of my wool coat, sending a shiver down my spine.

I walked up the stone path to the front door, my keys already in my hand.

The lock turned with a familiar, heavy click.

Inside, the house was warm and smelled faintly of lavender.

I took off my coat and hung it in the closet.

Then I saw his briefcase on the console table in the hallway.

Ethan was home.

I walked into the kitchen, my heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor.

He was sitting at the kitchen island, his laptop open, a glass of water next to his hand.

His tie was loosened, and his hair was uncharacteristically messy.

He looked up when I entered.

“You aren’t answering your phone,” he said.

His voice was flat, but I could hear the strain underneath.

“I was driving,” I said.

“Arthur has been trying to reach you for an hour, Clara.”

“I know.”

I walked past him to the sink and poured myself a glass of water.

My hands were steady, which surprised me.