I let myself in quietly with my front door key, stepping into the dark front hall and going upstairs without turning on the lights.

In Grace’s bedroom, her gray hooded sweatshirt with the frayed cuffs was tossed over the back of her desk chair, smelling faintly of hospital floor sanitizer.

I picked up the sweatshirt, folded it once, and put it into the canvas tote bag on my shoulder.

I took her yellow vaccination booklet out of her desk drawer, along with her original birth certificate and our joint health insurance cards.

The master bedroom across the landing smelled of Daniel’s cedar shoe trees and expensive laundry detergent.