So I close the garage door and backtrack through the house, following my own footsteps past the pool, across the yard, and out to the guesthouse, where the muffled sounds of string instruments float through. I say, “Nick?” and knock three times, then three again. I allow a few moments, expecting a shadow to appear behind the glass, but he does not answer, no shadows emerge, and so I twist the doorknob. The entrance to a house on my property is unlocked. That’s permission enough. “Nick,” I repeat, “I’m coming in.”

Sunlight pours through sheer curtains, spinning a honey-colored womb around me. Violins trail off to silence. A public radio announcer details the anatomy of the next song—a fugue by some nineteenth-century German composer who never fully recovered from a childhood bout of scarlet fever, blah-blah-blah. I enter the room and assess the scene. Japanese picture books on his nightstand. Two empty water glasses.

Two glasses.

“Nick,” I say quietly. “You in here?”

The bed is unmade. Pillows on the floor. On the coffee table across the room, his laptop is closed and charging. Next to it are empty beer bottles and a wrinkled Outside magazine. The dishes are clean, balanced vertically in a wire rack. There are no crumbs on the Formica, no bad habits in plain sight. I call out again for Nick as I move toward the hall closet, cracking it just enough to scan the empty shelves, bare hangers, the T-shirts and plaid shirts spilling from an open duffle bag. The door at the end of the hall is closed. When I open it, a night-light sets the tile aglow.

The bathroom smells of fresh mold. The source is apparent: six glass cubes filled with white flowers—six vases full of cloudy water that’s already begun to stink—aligned along the countertop against the mirrored wall. Bruised and broken petals have started falling from sturdy stems. Elizabeth must have gifted him half of Luna’s expired arrangements.

“Nick?” I say, but I say it softly and mindlessly. He isn’t here. I shouldn’t be here. But again, it’s my house—the one place on this planet that belongs to me. The wastebasket is full of wadded Kleenex, magazine subscription cards, empty soap packaging. He’s a Nivea fan, apparently. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I hope to accomplish by opening the shower door and crouching low and inspecting the drain, looking for—what? What am I doing? Looking for Elizabeth’s hair, I guess, like I’m some kind of Perry Mason. The German song commences its irritating first few measures, and I check myself. Enough.

Nick’s voice echoes in this empty shower stall. “Dr. Hart?”