Evelyn recognized them without quite understanding why.
They were not hers. She would never have chosen that style.
A hard pain struck the center of her chest. She had trusted Daniel for years, even when her friends warned that four months apart could change anyone. He had sent affectionate messages, photographs of breakfast, and voice recordings promising that everything at home was fine.
Far too fine.
Evelyn picked up one of the shoes and moved slowly down the hallway.
The main bedroom door was partly open. Cold white daylight came through the blinds. Clothes lay scattered across the floor: one of Daniel’s shirts, one of Noah’s sweatshirts, and a blanket that had been folded only halfway.
“Who’s in there?” she asked.
She pushed the door wider.
There were two people in the bed.
Daniel slept on his side, his hair disheveled and his face exhausted. Curled close against his chest beneath a loosely wrapped sheet was Noah. Daniel’s arm rested protectively across the young man’s shoulders, as though he believed someone might try to pull him away.
