The voice came from the hall archway.

Chadworth Prescott had taken off his overcoat somewhere between the lower level and the parlor and had left it on a stair.

His sleeves were rolled to the forearm.

He had not been to Toronto.

He had not been anywhere.

He had been under her feet for two hours.

The room stopped.

Sabina’s phone slipped in her fingers and she caught it against her stomach.