Chapter 7: The Interrogation

The basement was cold.

David woke at five with an ache in his neck and cedar dust trapped in his wool blanket. He lay on the worn sofa for a few minutes. Above him, the floor joists were dark and still.

He climbed the basement stairs without a sound.

In the kitchen, the walnut table stood clean, exactly where he had wiped it down after Karen went upstairs. The guest bedroom door remained shut down the hall. David filled the glass carafe at the sink, dumped dark grounds into the basket, and started the drip cycle.

Habit took over his hands.

He lined up three clean mugs on the counter. He cracked six eggs into a ceramic bowl, whisked them with a fork, and set four thick slices of sourdough on the cutting board. His knuckles felt stiff. He worked on autopilot because stopping meant looking directly at the split in his life, and that fracture went all the way to the foundation.

Outside, a car door slammed.

Chloe’s sedan was parked crooked behind his truck in the driveway. She had come in after one in the morning from campus, her headlights sweeping across the basement window well while he stared at the ceiling.

He poured the coffee. He left his mug black, added a splash of oat milk to the second, and stirred two spoonfuls of sugar and whole milk into the third. He carried all three into the living room and set them on the low cedar table.

Footsteps moved along the upstairs runner.

Maya came down first. She wore gray track sweatpants and an oversized green hoodie that swallowed her hands. Her dark hair was flattened on the right side from sleep.

“Morning, Dad,” she murmured, heading toward the pantry.

“Maya,” David said.

She paused by the island. “Yeah?”

“Come sit down in the living room.”

Maya looked at his face. Her expression tightened instantly, but she crossed the hardwood floor and pulled her bare feet onto the leather armchair.

Chloe came down the stairs a minute later. She wore dark slacks and a heavy navy sweater, her wet hair combed straight back. She held her phone in her right hand, tapping the glass with her thumb.

“Is the pot fresh?” Chloe asked.

“On the table,” David said. “Sit down, Chloe.”

Chloe stopped on the bottom step. She glanced at Maya curled in the chair, then at David standing by the brick hearth. Her eyes shifted into the guarded, analytical squint she used when defending a design plate.

“Is Mom awake?” she asked.

“No,” David said. “Sit down.”

Chloe walked over and took the far corner of the couch. She placed her phone face down on the cushion beside her thigh. She did not reach for her coffee.

David stayed on his feet. He rested his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, feeling the rough denim against his calluses.

“Your mother and I are separating,” David said.

The sentence sat in the room like raw lumber.

Maya sucked in a sharp, jagged breath. She pulled her knees up against her chest, burying her chin in the fleece of her collar.

“What?” Maya whispered. “Why?”