The door opened hard enough to strike the wall.

The blond woman from the plane stormed out, carrying a gold clutch and wiping mascara from beneath one eye. She moved toward the elevator without seeing Caroline in the shadowed alcove.

A minute later, Daniel came out.

He wore a pale linen shirt, dark trousers, and no hat. His beard was trimmed neatly, but nothing could hide the angle of his shoulders, the restless way he adjusted his watch, or the faint scar along his hand. Caroline’s mind supplied a thousand domestic images with terrible clarity: Daniel making coffee in their kitchen, Daniel lifting Noah into his car seat, Daniel sleeping beside her while she believed the warmth of his body meant safety.

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