Page 106

The coffee mug is still in the sink.

I stare at it longer than any reasonable person should stare at a coffee mug. White ceramic. Small chip near the handle. Nothing remarkable about it. Except Maddy used it this morning.

She stood at my kitchen counter wearing my gray sweatpants and an old T-shirt, both too big for her, her hair still a little messy from sleeping. The collar of the shirt had slipped off one shoulder, leaving a stretch of bare skin I tried not to notice. Tried being the important word.

She handed me coffee like finding her asleep on my living room floor after my nightmare was something we could survive without turning it into a conversation.

I liked seeing her in my clothes. I liked seeing her in my kitchen even more. That was probably the bigger problem.

I pick up the mug and rinse it. That should solve the problem. It doesn't. Neither does putting it in the cabinet or wiping down a counter that is already clean.

The cottage is too quiet. Usually I like quiet. This morning it feels like something is missing.

Atlas watches me from his bed near the window.

"Don't start."

His tail hits the floor once.

"You're supposed to be on my side."

Another thump.

I reach for my phone. There's a message from Maddy.

Mom and Noah are fine. House survived. Noah says the storm was 'pretty awesome,' which proves eight-year-old boys have no sense of self-preservation.

I smile. Then I see the number again. Eight.

Something inside me goes still. For a second, I'm not standing in my kitchen.

There's a little boy sitting cross-legged on a living room floor, pushing a truck over the rug. Dark hair falling into his eyes. One front tooth missing. A laugh too big for his body. Eight years old.

Some memories fade around the edges. That one never has.

I remember the blue dinosaur shirt Diego wore the last morning I saw him. I remember tying his shoe because he was in a hurry and kept knotting the laces. I remember him asking if I would be home that weekend. I remember saying I would try.

Twelve years later, I can still hear his voice.

Atlas gets up and crosses the kitchen. He presses against my leg, and my hand settles on his head.

"I know."

He stays there.

I look at Maddy's message again, then type: Glad everyone's okay. Tell Noah I'm impressed by his survival skills.

Her reply comes almost immediately. He wants you to know we had caramel popcorn. Apparently that was critical to our survival.

A second message follows. Also, Mom says thank you for keeping me from doing something stupid and trying to drive home. Then: I did not authorize this thank-you.

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. I type: Your mother has good judgment.

Three dots appear. She likes you. Don't let it go to your head.

I stare at the screen. I could answer. Normally I would. Something about her questionable taste. Something guaranteed to make Hart argue with me.

Instead, I put the phone away.