He knows something.
That's the thing about twenty nights with a person. You learn their tells. Not the obvious ones — not the jaw tightening or the hands going still. The small ones. The way his breathing changes when he's processing something he doesn't want to say out loud. The half-second delay before he speaks that means he's choosing words instead of just using them.
He's doing all of it right now.
"Talk to me," I say.
Hope's still in his arms. She's finished her bottle and gone quiet in that drowsy, full way she gets, head heavy on his shoulder. He looks down at her once. Then at me.
"There's something I didn't tell you," he says.
Four words that could mean anything. Four words that land in my chest like stones dropped in still water.
"Okay." I keep my voice even. "Tell me now."
He sits down. Carefully. Like he needs to be stationary for this.
