Page 157 of His Surrender

Liana stares at me. I manage a smile that feels wrong on my face.

“Aubrey is fine.”

The words should reassure me, but they don’t.

At 6:25, I turn the burner beneath the sauce to its lowest setting. At 6:28, I move the pan off the heat completely.

At 6:31, I walk to the windows.

The city below is a blur of headlights, taillights, and pedestrians bundled in dark coats. From this height, everyone looks small and anonymous. I scan the sidewalk outside the building anyway, searching for a familiar cream coat or the movement of auburn hair beneath a knitted hat.

There is no reason to believe she would be visible from here, but I continue looking.

Behind me, Liana makes an impatient sound, and guilt hits me sharply. I turn away from the window and lift her from the highchair.

She is tired. Her body has gone heavy in the way it does before sleep, her cheek immediately settling against my shoulder.

I carry her through the apartment, rubbing slow circles over her back.

“She probably found one more store,” I whisper.

Liana’s fingers curl into my collar.

“Or the lines are long.”

I walk toward the hallway, then turn back toward the windows.

“Her phone died. That’s all.”

The more I say it, the less convincing it becomes.

At 6:37, I call again. This time, I leave a message.

“Hey. Dinner’s ready. Call me when you get this.” My voice sounds normal. Exactly the way I want it to sound.

I end the call and stare at the screen. The urge to call again comes almost immediately, but I resist it.

I am not going to become the kind of man who demands constant updates. Aubrey is an adult. She is capable of walking through New York City without reporting her location to me every fifteen minutes.

I know every one of those things. Knowing them does not slow my pulse.

I take Liana into the nursery and lower her into the crib. She fusses the moment her back touches the mattress, so I rest one hand over her stomach until her body relaxes. The night-light casts a soft amber glow over her face.

For a moment, watching her breathe steadies me. Then the monitor screen beside the chair shows the time—6:44.

My mother was supposed to be home before dinner.

The thought appears without warning.

It is not a memory at first, just a sentence. Familiar enough that my body reacts before my mind fully understands why.

My mother was supposed to be home before dinner.

I close my eyes.

No. Aubrey is shopping. This is different.

Aubrey is somewhere in Manhattan, probably irritated by a slow cashier or debating whether Liana needs another Christmas outfit.