“Evan?” I whispered.
He did not jump. He slowly lifted his head, his hand staying flat on her back.
“She was crying in her sleep, Carrie, so I came in to help,” he said, his voice barely a breath.
“I didn’t hear her,” I said.
“It was quiet,” he whispered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Just a little whimper. Go back to bed.”
I looked at Emma’s face, her eyelids pale and quiet, showing no sign of tears or a struggle.
I went back to our room, but I did not sleep.
At eight-thirty the next morning, the smell of damp wool filled the living room as Evan zipped his briefcase. He did not look up when I brought him his travel mug, his eyes fixed on the metal latch of his bag.
“You look exhausted,” I said, leaning against the hallway doorframe.
“Just a long week,” he said, his voice flat as he adjusted his collar.
“Did Emma wake up again after I went to sleep?”
“No,” he said, slipping his phone into his trousers pocket. “She was fine. We both were.”
He did not look at me as he spoke, his hand lingering on the brass zipper of his briefcase.
