Andrea stood at the stove with the pasta water boiling behind her, the faint hiss of garlic hitting hot olive oil the only sound in the penthouse. She had found a jar of marinara and a pan at the back of the pantry and decided that was dinner. Her hands needed something to do. Standing still after a day like today wasn’t an option.

The garlic smelled sharp and familiar, cutting through the quiet the way it always did when she cooked alone. She stirred without thinking, the wooden spoon moving in slow circles while her mind stayed in the lobby, in the break room, in the way Henry had...