He turned to face me, his hands in his pockets, his index finger still moving against the fabric of his trousers.
“Then wait until Friday,” he said, his voice dropping back into that smooth, professional tone he used with his clients. “The company will reimburse my travel expenses by then.”
He walked up the stairs to our bedroom, leaving his briefcase on the bottom step.
At one in the morning, the white noise machine in the nursery hummed, a steady, low static that barely covered the sound of the wind outside. The smell of cold formula hung in the air, sour and heavy. I knelt on the floor beside the middle crib, reaching down to retrieve a pacifier that had fallen.
My fingers brushed against something hard and cold behind the wooden leg of the crib.
I pulled it out into the dim blue light of the nightlight. It was a heavy silver baby rattle, tarnished grey around the edges, with a circular handle.
