Kimberly
I woke up when the sun came through the guest room window. My neck hurts from the pillow. I sat up slowly.
The house was quiet. No footsteps. No voices.
I picked up my phone. The messages from last night were still there. Rina and the file. I still did not open it.
I stood up and opened the door. The hallway smelled like fresh coffee.
I walked to the kitchen.
My husband stood at the counter. He wore sweatpants and a clean shirt.
He held two mugs in his hands, one in each, like he had been waiting for me to show up.
He looked at me.
“I made coffee. Black. The way you like it.”
I took the mug he held out. Our fingers did not touch.
“Thanks.”
He nodded.
“Did you sleep?”
“A little,” I muttered, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug.
“Me too. Not much,” he said.
We
