Sophie’s hand shook on the first letter and steadied by the last.

She wrote Sophie Marsh, which I hadn’t known until that moment was her whole name.

In the hallway Barbara touched my elbow.

“She’s going to need a new phone by Friday.

Assume hers is known.”

At seven that evening I was standing at the kitchen counter with the overnight bag open when Julian came in from the garage.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I zipped the bag.