Victoria came downstairs in soft clothes, hair damp, and suggested tea in the living room. The three of them sat in their usual places—Victoria in her corner of the couch, Elena at the opposite end, Marcus in the armchair with the careful three feet of space maintained. The documentary Victoria chose played at low volume. Conversation stayed light: the client presentation, the flight, whether the house had needed anything. Elena gave the right answers at the right times. Part of her attention stayed locked lower, tracking the thick presence of Marcus inside her, the dull continuous ache of the lower marks under her sweater, the private knowledge of everything the...