He closed the plastic lid with a sharp snap that seemed too loud for seven in the morning.
“Is the airport parking still coming out of our joint account?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. “That forty-eight dollar fee from last week is still showing as pending.”
“I will transfer the funds to cover it tonight,” Tyler said.
He picked up his travel mug, his eyes tracking the steam rising from the lid rather than looking at my face.
By half past eight, Mason was upstairs brushing his teeth, and the house had settled into the tense, waiting silence that always preceded Tyler’s departures.
I walked down the hallway to the small spare room we used as his home office to retrieve his dry-cleaned shirts from the door hook. The door was half-open, and his heavy black leather flight bag sat in the center of the mahogany desk.
From the hallway closet near the front door, I heard Tyler’s voice, low and sharp.
