Marcus’s phone buzzed again.

He looked at the screen, and his jaw moved once.

“Go on in,” he said.

“Elisa’s in the kitchen.”

I went.

Elisa had the oven open when I came through the kitchen door.

She wore a white blouse and an apron with a small stain near the pocket.

“You’re letting the cold in,” she said, and closed the oven with her hip.