The door opened into emptiness. Lily picked up an undershirt from the floor and pulled the corners of the quilt, the bed unslept in but messy anyway.

The day had begun on the lake. She could hear boat motors, and children shrieking with joy as they clutched the vinyl handles of tubes. Someone was playing country music through a speaker turned up too loud, making the twangs tinny. She could see the outdoor shower below, Ruth’s and Mickey’s bathing suits draped over the door. She had been surprised when Mickey asked her for a two-piece that year. She wondered if she would ever stop being surprised by the way her children kept growing up. She looked over at the shed to see if the bike was missing, but it was there, pristine as ever.

She used the hem of the undershirt to wipe a smudge from the windowpane, which blurred the otherwise perfect view.

He wasn’t cooking breakfast. The kitchen was littered with remnants of her children’s fending for themselves: crumbs on the counter, peanut butter with the lid askew. She turned the corner and went onto the porch. Nothing.

It wasn’t until she faced the dining room that she saw it. The table was cleared of last night’s meal, the trivets and candlesticks back on their shelves. But there was one small vase left out, right in the center. Its neck like a loose fist around the stem of one red flower.

He knew.

—

“HEY, YOU.”

No matter the problem, the first harmonic of Gavin’s voice was the best and most immediate remedy. She wanted to call him again and again just to hear him answer. She wanted to hook herself up to the cell phone towers between them, align her heartbeat with the pause between rings.

“Gav.” She exhaled, her breath hard and quick as she crossed the lawn. “Something’s up. I think he knows.”

“Slow down,” Gavin said. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Her foot slipped on the morning’s dew, and she steadied herself. “I’m okay. He’s not here right now; I don’t know where he went. But he definitely knows something.”

“What happened, exactly?”

Lily entered the shadow of the boathouse and pressed herself against the wall. She felt briefly insane, flush with drama like a teenager. But the pounding in her heart was real.

“Okay, so, I did something for Sarah yesterday. Nothing special, just brought flowers to the clearing. For the anniversary.”

“Oh, Lily,” he said. “Thank you. What did you get her?”

“Poppies. I remember her saying something about liking flowers that could make drugs.”

Gavin chuckled at the memory, so adolescent. The dead don’t grow up.

“You’re the kindest woman I know. You know that?”

“I learned it from you,” she said, and for a moment she forgot why she’d called; she forgot anything else existed at all.

“So, then what?”