Chapter 1 — The Marble Desk

“Sir, with that sleeping child and those bruised flowers, you might have better luck at one of the cheaper motels down the road.”

Wescott Hargreave went still in front of the marble reception desk of The Carlisle, in the heart of downtown Chicago.

His six-year-old daughter was asleep against his shoulder, and a bouquet of red roses was gripped in his left hand.

He didn’t answer right away.

Not because the sting hadn’t landed, but because Junie was breathing softly against his neck, worn out after a three-hour flight delay out of Denver.

He had learned long ago that when a child finally falls asleep after crying from sheer exhaustion, a parent will swallow every drop of his own pride to keep from waking her.

Chapter 2 — The Roses

He wore a brown leather jacket faded at the elbows, three days of stubble, and a scuffed backpack stuffed with snacks, a dead tablet, a change of clothes, and the stuffed rabbit Junie hadn’t let go of since her mother died.

He had bought the roses at the airport.

Tomorrow marked exactly three years since Elowen, his wife, had passed.

Every anniversary, he set fresh flowers in the living room, and Junie chose the vase.

It was a small, stubborn tradition — one of those routines that survive because grief needs something simple and tangible to rest on.

The tradition had started by accident, the first year, when Junie was barely four and did not have words yet for where her mother had gone.