Now she catches herself in the vanity mirror, hair in a knot on top of her head, and reaches for a photo that she’s wedged into the frame: a photo-booth strip she brought from home, Maeve and Rudy and Talia at the mall, smiling and sticking out their tongues and making kiss-lips. She takes a breath and releases it again, the way those relaxation apps tell you to, a silent four-count in her head, stroking the photo with her thumb.

Rudy always just one step behind, kissy when he ought to be pulling a face.

“Kids like schedules, Mom. They like things to stay the same. And I can’t work if I don’t know for sure—for sure!—where they are.” Her voice is rising, but she can’t help herself. “You know what I went through! Do you have any idea how panicked I was when I got that voice mail? Why wouldn’t you at least tell me?”

“They’re fine,” her mother says flatly. “Maeve, you’re the only one who still thinks about him. You’re the one who can’t get past it.” Her voice sharpens. “If you can’t stop worrying about Iain, then come home. Otherwise, you’re just fucking around.”

“Are they in the room?”

“Maeve.”

“Are they in the room right now? Are Rudy and Talia there, listening to you talk to me like that?”

“Of course not.”

Four-count. Breathe in, breathe out.

Maeve wedges the photo strip back into the mirror frame and turns to the window. In the dark, it’s hard to see just how much snow is coming down, but the wind sounds stronger than ever. Below, there’s the light from the rear door and the path, half buried where it crosses through the pines. No one out walking. She leans close for a better look, then catches herself, suddenly aware who she is looking for.

Sim Nielssen.

But he’s not out there looking in. No one is.

That’s a good thing, Maeve, she reminds herself. You don’t want that. You don’t want a guy that follows you around.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before her mother begins to breathe noisily. Maeve turns from the window to deal with the problem at hand. “It’s just—it’s been a long time since I had this kind of space to give to myself, Mom. What I’m trying to do is not small, it’s not a small thing. It won’t all get done in two weeks. This is just a start. I’m trying to kick-start myself, creatively.”

“So start kicking. Go to work.”

“I know Iain’s gone. But I’m trying to remember to trust myself—”

“Just don’t waste your time—”

“—it would be nice if I could trust you too.”

There’s a silence. Then:

“He’s dead, Maeve.”