None of those checkmarks had his usual notation for late meetings or client dinners, yet the house had been empty every evening since the start of autumn.
The master bedroom was dark when I went up at two in the morning, except for the single lamp beside the closet.
Ethan was kneeling on the carpet, packing his brown leather suitcase with three of his best pressed shirts.
He quickly closed the lid and slid the brass latches into place when I stepped into the room.
“What is the suitcase for?” I asked, adjusting my collar with my thumb.
“A local conference in Columbus,” Ethan said, his voice rising into that smooth, fast register he used when he was talking to bank clients. “Donald scheduled it last week to review the regional mergers.”
“You did not mention a conference,” I said.
He picked up the suitcase and slid it into the back of the closet, locking the sliding door behind it with a small key.
