CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
The Things We Do in Autumn
Penelope woke because the bed was cold.
At first, she barely registered it. She reached across the mattress in search of the warmth she had grown accustomed to over the years, her fingers meeting only a shallow indentation in the sheets.
She turned onto her other side.
"Ezra?"
No answer.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the late-autumn night. A thin line of moonlight slipped between the curtains and lay across the wardrobe. The clock on her bedside table read 2:17 a.m.
Penelope pushed herself upright.
Ezra was not in the bathroom. She could see beneath the door that the light was off, and when she called his name again, the house offered nothing in return.
She frowned.
