The passenger door opened, and Mark stepped out, pulling his jacket tight against his neck.
I opened my door and walked up the gravel path, the stones crunching under my clogs.
Emily did not roll down her window or call out a greeting.
She shifted the car into reverse, the tires spinning slightly on the wet gravel as she backed out of the driveway.
I stood on the lawn, watching the red glow of Emily’s car taillights disappearing around the corner.
Mark was already inside by the time I reached the porch. He did not mention Emily, and I did not ask, choosing instead to focus on the mail and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
By eight o’clock, the silence in the house had grown heavy. Mark was out in the garage, and I went into the dining room to look for the spare roll of packing tape in his oak desk.
I opened the top drawer, but it was filled with old tax documents and utility statements.
Under the corner of the green felt blotter, a small slip of paper caught my eye. It was a credit card receipt from the Seattle Harbor Hotel, dated the previous Friday.
