As I walked toward her corner unit, my mind drifted to dinner — maybe I’d slow-cook a brisket. Michael had been complaining of fatigue, and I wanted to take care of him.

I knocked three times.

Inside, something scraped — a heavy chair shoved back fast. Assuming she was resting, I opened my mouth to call out, and the door jerked inward.

The figure in the doorway wasn’t the grieving widow.

It was Michael.

He was wearing the white oxford I’d ironed for him before dawn, but the collar was crooked and the top three buttons were undone, his chest flushed. Sweat dotted his forehead, and the irritation on his face turned to raw panic the instant his eyes found mine.