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“Can we talk?” Keith asked.

I patted Samantha’s leg. She didn’t seem to notice, so I picked up my mug and followed Keith out of the room. He climbed the stairs and went into our bedroom. Once I was in the room, he quietly closed the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed and sipped my tea. “What do we need to talk about?”

He looked tense. I wasn’t sure if the tension forming tight spots around his eyes and jaw was about Patrick or a result of my question. I took another sip of tea and waited.

“Do you have any idea where Patrick is?” he asked.

I laughed. “Why would I know that?”

“Did you see him leave? Did you hear anything? Maybe you heard him walking down the hall, so you know exactly when he left. Maybe you spoke to him. Maybe he told you his plans.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

“All plausible.”

“They sound like wishful thinking.”

“Why are you being so hostile to me?” he asked.

“I’m not hostile, but I wish you’d step back and notice that you’re just making things up. If I’d seen him or spoken to him, don’t you think I would have told you?”

“You’re not telling me much of anything lately, so I needed to ask.”

“Why won’t you stop harassing me about that? I don’t know what I can do. Just because I’m not instantly replying to every message you send?”

“Let’s finish one thing before we start another,” he said. “You have absolutely no idea where he went?”

“Why do you think I’d know anything about him?”

“Because when I woke at four this morning, you weren’t in bed.”

I hadn’t realized he’d woken. He never did. Keith slept every night like it was his first rest in three days. Throughout the night, he hardly ever changed positions in our bed. I’d often sit awake, playing a game or scrolling social media, and even the glowing screen didn’t penetrate the thick unconscious state that descended over him like the heavy soil on a grave. It was a morbid thought, and I wasn’t sure why I’d had it. I took a quick sip of tea, trying to clear my mind.

I knew I hadn’t been as responsive as I was in the past, but he’d made it into something catastrophic by accusing me of cheating. He couldn’t be further from the truth, and it still hurt that he thought I could, or would. Now, I wondered where he was headed with these questions.

“Our bathroom door was open and you weren’t here. So where were you?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Can we please stop? This feels like an interrogation.”

“You’re dodging my questions.”

“I went outside and sat on the deck. I wanted to hear the quiet.”

“Is our bedroom too noisy for you?”

I laughed. At least he rewarded me with a tiny smile. “It’s quiet. But there’s something about the night air, and being in the mountains. It’s so different. It’s peaceful and so much… bigger. I wanted to be out there when no one else was around.”

“So did you see him leave? What time did you come back to bed?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look at the clock.” I stood and walked around the bed. I placed my mug on the nightstand and sat down with my back against the pillows. I patted the bed beside me. “Why don’t you come sit here with me? We could⁠—”

“We could, what? I’m trying to talk to you. That’s just another way for you to dodge my questions.”