That was why the bent stems mattered to him, standing at that marble desk, more than a stranger could have guessed.

Those particular flowers were carrying something.

He had chosen them at the airport with Junie asleep on his shoulder, had guarded them through a delayed flight and a long cab ride, because tomorrow he and his daughter were going to put them in water and tell the little girl’s mother, in the only language grief leaves you, that she was still loved and still missed and still, three years on, the center of the small family she had left behind.

“I have a reservation,” he said, keeping his voice at a whisper.

“Under Hargreave.”

Chapter 3 — Nothing Coming Up