We’re back home at the mansion before dark, but I go straight to bed. The next day passes in similar fashion—too quiet, too still, too depressing.
I call Cyrille at ten-thirty after finally succumbing to tears. Twenty-five minutes later, she shows up with ice cream and a sympathetic shoulder.
“He didn’t come home last night?” she asks as soon as she arrives.
I shake my head. Tears are soaking into Cyrille’s sleeve, but I can’t bring myself to care. There’s a void where my husband should be, and the ice cream tastes like wet ashes on my tongue.
“It’s some mission.” I sniffle, swiping my nose with the cuff of Misha’s sweatshirt I stole from his closet. “We had one amazing day at the cabin, but then we had to leave. He barely even explained what or why or where or any of it.”
“Did he tel
