Chapter 2

The apartment was pitch-black when I walked through the front door.

I didn't turn on the lights. I just felt my way to the couch and sat down.

The darkness felt safe. At least I didn't have to look at all those familiar things.

At 2:00 am, the electronic lock on the front door beeped open. Audrey walked in, coupled with the smell of wine and the chill of the night air. She flipped on the living room light and froze for a second when she saw me on the couch.

"Why are you sitting in the dark? You're still up?"

She was already stepping out of her heels as she tossed the question out like an afterthought.

"Couldn't sleep." I watched her hang her trench coat on the rack by the door. "How did things go in Aldenberg?"

My voice came out low and flat. Audrey's hands stalled for half a second.

"It went fine, just back-to-back meetings all day. I'm exhausted."

She walked over and started to lean against me out of habit. I tilted my head and shifted back half an inch, just enough to pull away. Her movement froze midair, and her brow creased so faintly it was barely noticeable.

"What's wrong? Are you still upset about coming in last at the team dinner tonight?"

She straightened up and pulled her hand back, her voice taking on the tired resignation of a woman used to being in charge.

"Evan, you're 30 years old. Stop measuring yourself against the new graduates over things that don't matter."

I looked at the easy certainty on her face. "You didn't go to Aldenberg. Did you?"

Audrey's hands went still on her sleeve. She looked down at me, and a flash of panic crossed her face.

"Who told you that? The Aldenberg trip was on the company calendar. Everyone knew about it."

She walked over to the water cooler and poured herself a glass.

"Micah's phone was on speaker today."

Audrey stopped drinking. A full 30 seconds passed before she turned around and let out a sigh.

"Fine. Since you heard it, I won't bother hiding it. I didn't go to Aldenberg. The flight got canceled."

She pulled up a chair and sat down, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. "Micah had a rough day at the office. He was threatening to quit, and the project he's leading just started gaining traction.

"Losing him right now would be a serious hit to the company. As his boss, calming him down and giving him a gift to smooth things over isn't exactly unreasonable, is it?"

I looked at that familiar face, and for the first time, it looked like a stranger's.

"Since when does calming someone down involve calling them 'babe'?" I kept my voice low.

Audrey pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, visibly irritated.

"Evan, can you please stop making something out of nothing? He just graduated. He's young, proud, and sensitive. I said a couple of sweet things to keep him from spiraling. It was all an act."

She stood, walked to the entryway, and pulled a paper bag out of her purse.

"I was near campus, and the sweet potato cart was still out, so I grabbed one for you."

She set the grease-spotted bag on the coffee table. "You used to love these, remember? Eat it while it's warm. Stop being upset."

She turned and disappeared into the bathroom, while I stared at the shriveled sweet potato.

Seven years ago, we were so broke that splitting one of these was dinner. It tasted sweet back then.

She had forgotten that, just last month, I was diagnosed with stomach cancer. My doctor couldn't have been more emphatic when he told me to stay away from hard-to-digest foods exactly like this.

The sound of running water drifted from the bathroom. I got up and walked over to the coat rack.

A strip of black ribbon was poking out of Audrey's coat pocket. I gently pulled it free.

It was a certificate of authenticity for a luxury watch, a custom mechanical timepiece with "S & B" engraved on the caseback—Sinclair and Brennan.

So that was what she called an act.

I tucked the certificate back into the pocket exactly as I found it. I walked over to the coffee table, picked up the sweet potato, and dropped it into the trash.

It landed with a dull thud, and the last scrap of hope I had left for her went with it.