The bedroom smells faintly of his cologne.
It lingers in the fabric of the curtains, in the collar of the shirts she hasn’t moved yet. Ava stands in the middle of the room with a pile of folded laundry in her arms, not sure how long she’s been standing there.
The house is quiet. Sophie went to bed an hour ago. The guest room door had closed softly.
Matthew still isn’t home.
Ava sets the clothes down on the bed and opens his wardrobe.
She doesn’t need to organize it. It’s already neat. He’s always been particular about his suits—lined by shade, shirts pressed within an inch of perfection.
She runs her fingers over the fabric anyway.
Navy. Charcoal. Black.
Her hand lingers on one of the darker suits. The one he wears to investor meetings. To important places.
She pulls it slightly o
