It's ten at night.
Rosamund's text sits on the screen and I look at it the way I've been looking at things tonight that rearrange what I thought I knew. Four words. No explanation. No apology for the hour.
Just: "I've been waiting. Come."
"She knew we were at the hotel," I say.
"She knows most things before she should," Dominic says. He's looking at the text too. "Are you up for one more conversation tonight?"
I think about Petra's face in the kitchen and my daughter quiet and steady inside me. I think about a folder of documents that rewrites my understanding of my mother and my bloodline and the shape of what my daughter is coming into.
"Yes," I say. "One more."
Rosamund opens the door before I knock.
She is dressed which means she didn't go to bed which means she has been waitin
