I slid my legs out from under the sheet, the cold pine floorboards shocking my feet.
I stood up and reached for my robe on the chair.
My hand brushed the smooth leather of my purse sitting on the vanity, where I had left it after we got home from the Garden Cafe.
“Are you going to check it?” George asked, sitting up against the headboard.
“Not yet,” I said.
I walked down the dark hallway toward the stairs, leaving the phone buzzing on the nightstand behind me.
By seven, the kitchen smelled of dark roast and toast.
The automated coffee maker had finished its cycle, leaving a thin layer of brown condensation around the top of the glass carafe.
George stood by the kitchen island, pouring the steaming coffee into two thick ceramic mugs.
I sat on the tall stool, my hands flat on the cool granite counter.
My laptop was closed next to my elbow, its brushed metal lid cold under my palm.
I had finally picked up the phone.
The screen was a long scroll of notifications, most of them from the same number.
