“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good.”

He checked his phone again, wearing that same soft smile, then slipped it into his back pocket before I could glimpse the screen.

“I have to run out for an hour,” he said. “Errand.”

“On a Wednesday morning? Don’t you have work?”

“Boring one. Promise.”

I watched him leave and told myself I was being absurd.

Grief did strange things to people. My mother used to say suspicion was simply love with nowhere to land, and lately my love seemed to have nowhere at all.

That evening, I carried a stack of clean towels toward the guest room, but the door would not open.

“Mark?” I called. “Why is the guest room locked?”

“Is it?” he called back from downstairs. “Must’ve stuck. I’ll take a look in a minute.”

“Do you have the key?”

“Somewhere,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”