“The map,” he said, quietly.
Of course. It was on the wall beside the window—a city map, paper, pinned flat. I’d traced my routes on it in red pen. Montrose Harbor at dawn. The path along the river. The long loop through Humboldt Park when I needed more than five miles.
“You saw my routes.”
“Didn’t know for sure they were to run, but there were other clues.
He was quiet for a moment. We kept walking—his stride longer than mine, adjusted to match without being asked.
“Other clues?”
“Running shoes by the door,” he said. “Worn through on the right heel more than the left.”
“Jesus, you’re a regular Sherlock Homes.”
He grinned. “It’s not all I noticed.”
“Please, tell me more.”
“Books—a lot. Stacked sideways on top of the ones shelved upright. The dog bowls lined up by the sink. Three of them, which seemed like a lot for one four-pound dog.”
“She has preferences.”
“I noticed.” A beat. “There was a photograph. Face-down on the shelf above the books. Old frame, looked like.”
My chest compressed. My sister.
“I didn’t look at it,” he said.
The sentence fell between us and lay there. I waited for more. There wasn’t more. .
He had noticed everything.
I stopped walking.
The water moved below the path edge. A gull crossed the grey sky and disappeared. My breath clouded in the cold air and dispersed.
He stopped beside me. Not in front, not behind—beside, close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushed the shoulder of my coat. He was looking at the water. I felt him not looking at me with the same acuity I felt everything about him, which was apparently how this worked now.
“The photo,” I said. My voice was level. I made it level. “You really didn’t look?”
“You didn’t want it face-up,” he said. “That was enough.”
I stared at the lake.
That photo was pure pain. A childhood, lost. I couldn’t look at it, but I kept it because getting rid of it was unthinkable.
His hand found mine.
The scarred knuckles over my knuckles. The warmth of his palm against my palm—his skin warm even in November.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
But when we got into the car, he didn’t start the engine.
We were park the street near the water, the cold already seeping back in, the windows fogging at the edges from our breath. The lake was behind us—invisible now, just a sound, the low persistent movement of water that had nowhere else to be. He had his hands on the wheel. Not gripping—resting. His eyes were forward, toward the empty street, toward nothing.
I looked at him.
