Victoria came downstairs at mid-morning carrying the stack of Marcus’s shirts.

Elena was in the kitchen with coffee she had not touched. The thick residual heat of the dawn claiming was still inside her. The lower marks under her sweater ached in a deep continuous line. Marcus stood at the counter. The private frequency between them was quiet and absolute under the scraped, hollow quiet of the house. Neither of them had expected the shirts.

Victoria set the stack on the island with deliberate care. The ordinary fabric looked wrong in the ordinary kitchen—like evidence that had finally been moved from the master bedroom into the shared space. She looked...