The drive to Aurora took forty minutes, and neither of them spoke. Marcus followed Danielle’s sedan in his own car, his hands stiff on the wheel, his mind cycling through every terrible thing the apartment might hold. When they parked outside the weathered brick building, she waited for him on the cracked sidewalk, the same grocery bag hanging from her shoulder. Up close he could see how tired she was, the kind of tired that sleep does not fix.

“Third floor,” she said quietly. “No elevator.” They climbed in silence. At the top of the stairs she stopped at a door marked 3C and pulled a key from her pocket, one he had never seen on her ring. Her hand shook against the lock. “Before we go in,” she whispered, “promise me you won’t be angry at me for hiding this. I did it to protect you.” Then she turned the key, pushed the door open, and a frail voice called out from inside, “Danielle? Sweetheart, is that you?”