Eleven
The house had been empty since the spring and Mara counted the windows twice before she opened the door. Nine years of practice had taught her to look like a woman checking her reflection.
Inside, the kitchen still held its heat. She set out two cups without being asked and turned the chipped one toward herself, so that the flaw faced in.
Daniel arrived the way he always did, as though the street had produced him.
“You knew I was coming?” he said.
“I keep a spare. Sit down before it gets cold.”