“Tell me who it is,” I said.
Her lips parted, but only a whisper came out. “Please, Gavin.”
A voice called from the porch.
“Emily? I know you’re in there.”
It was a woman’s voice. Older. Firm.
Emily closed her eyes.
Recognition flickered across her face, but it wasn’t relief.
I walked toward the door.
“Gavin, no.”
I stopped with my hand above the lock and looked back at her. Five months ago, we had stood in a courthouse hallway with lawyers between us and silence stretching wider than the life we had lost. I remembered thinking her calmness meant she no longer cared. Now I wondered how much of that calmness had been survival.
“I’m not letting anyone frighten you in your own house,” I said.
Her eyes filled. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
The person outside knocked a third time, slower.
I opened the door.
Cold air swept inside, carrying snowflakes and the scent of pine from the wreath Emily had hung on the door. On the porch stood a woman in a charcoal wool coat, a red scarf wrapped neatly at her throat. She was in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, with silver-blonde hair tucked beneath a hat and sharp blue eyes that took in everything quickly.
Her gaze landed on me.
Surprise flashed across her face.
“Gavin Rowan,” she said.
I frowned. “Do I know you?”
“No.” She looked past me into the house. “But I know Emily.”
Emily stepped into view, still holding Noah. Her voice was fragile. “Margaret.”
The woman’s expression softened for half a second at the sight of the baby, then tightened again with urgency.
