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“Go to bed,” I tell her.

Her eyebrows rise. “Bossy.”

“It’s late.”

“So?”

“You look tired.”

The smile fades slightly. For a second, she just looks at me. Really looks. The way you look at something you’re trying to see the shape of in the dark. Then her expression softens.

“So do you.”

I’m suddenly aware of how quiet the hotel room is.

The hum of the heater. The faint whine of the minifridge. Traffic fourteen floors down, muffled and far away, like the sound of someone else’s life.

How far away they are.

Shiloh. My house. Her.

“I’ll be home Friday,” I say.

“I heard.”

“I should be there by dinner.”

“Okay.”

Another pause.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The lights behind her blink. Red. Green. Blue.

“Safe travels, husband.” She smiles again.

I should hang up.

Instead, I say, “Goodnight, wife.”

Her smile changes. Barely. But I see it.

Something in her eyes goes still and soft at the same time, the way a candle flame steadies when you shut a door.

“Goodnight, Maverick.”

The screen goes dark.

My own reflection stares back at me from the black glass. Loosened tie. Two-day stubble. Eyes that look older than they did in October.

I sit there for another minute.

Then I open my messages.

There’s a photograph from Dottie I hadn’t seen yet.

Sent at 7:52. I’d been on a call with the lender.

Noelle and Shiloh are asleep on the couch, apparently sometime in the middle of a Christmas movie. Shiloh is sprawled across Noelle, his head tucked beneath her chin. One of her arms is wrapped around him.