“Did you leave the back gate open?” I asked, pointing toward the sliding glass patio doors behind him.

Daniel turned his head to look out into the dark yard, his profile sharp against the reflection of the room.

While his eyes were turned away, I raised my paper napkin to my mouth, quietly spat the liquid into the thick white fold, and slid the wet paper straight into the pocket of my cardigan.

“The gate is latched,” Daniel said, turning back to face me.

“My mistake,” I said, setting the half-empty mug down on the wooden coaster.