The knock on the front door came at 4:42 p.m.

Elena was in the kitchen with both hands wrapped around a glass of water she had forgotten to drink. Marcus was at the island scrolling through work email with the focused stillness he had been using since Victoria left for the hotel. The lower bruises under Elena’s sweater ached in a dull continuous line. Between her legs she still carried the combined heat of the night and the garage—warm, thick, deliberate—because even after the narrow escape and the sound of Victoria’s car pulling away a second time, neither of them had moved to wash it away.

The knock came again,...