“He hasn’t called or texted since we left Elm Street yesterday afternoon.”

“He will,” my father said.

“A man who wants to protect his wife doesn’t stay hidden for long.”

“And if he only wants to keep the peace between his mother and me?”

My father took a slow sip of his black coffee and looked toward the lobby entrance, where hotel guests were pouring orange juice.

“Then he’ll find out that peace bought by giving in is just quiet surrender,” he said.

At eight fifteen, three distinct knocks echoed against the hollow door of hotel room 214.