He was gone when I woke up.
I knew before I checked — the building had a specific quality of his absence that was different from his presence, and I had apparently spent enough time learning the texture of both that I could distinguish them through a floor and a night's sleep.
His key was on my counter.
Not the spare key to floor four — his key to my apartment. The one he'd somehow had cut without mentioning it, which I had discovered approximately ten days ago and had filed under things I was choosing not to examine because examining it would have required me to have a large feeling about it in the middle of a case.
He had left it.
Not returned it — left it. There was a difference. Returning was giving something back. Leaving was making sure I knew he intended to come back for it.
I
