Then closed his eyes.
Renee felt something inside her tear.
Not because he had confessed.
Because disappointment looked too much like guilt.
“How long?”
Marcus opened his eyes.
“It isn't what you think.”
Renee stood.
“No.”
He raised one hand.
“Please.”
“Do not say that.”
“I need to explain.”
“Then answer the question.”
“What question?”
“How long have you been seeing her?”
Marcus stared.
Renee’s face changed as she heard herself say it.
There.
Affair.
The word existed now even though neither had spoken it.
Marcus shook his head.
“I am not sleeping with anybody.”
“Have you kissed her?”
“No.”
“Have you touched her?”
“What?”
“Answer.”
“No.”
“Do you love her?”
Marcus looked almost shocked.
“No.”
“Then who is she?”
He looked toward the hallway.
That frightened Renee more.
“Marcus.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why?”
“Caleb is asleep.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
“You have been visiting some woman’s house and lying about where you are, and your concern is volume?”
“Renee.”
“Who is Lauren?”
Marcus looked upstairs again.
Then back.
His voice became quiet.
“Lauren Miles.”
Nothing happened for perhaps two seconds.
Then Renee’s face changed.
The name was familiar.
Old.
Buried.
A name that belonged inside documents they had not opened in years.
“No.”
Marcus said nothing.
Renee stepped backward.
“No.”
He looked toward the floor.
“Marcus.”
“It’s her.”
Renee’s hand found the edge of the desk.
“Lauren Miles.”
“Yes.”
“Zoe’s Lauren.”
Marcus swallowed.
“Yes.”
The room tilted.
Renee sat because her knees stopped feeling reliable.
Zoe’s biological mother.
The eighteen-year-old woman who had given birth to Zoe Holloway fourteen years earlier.
The woman Renee had never met.
The woman whose name had once appeared on agency paperwork, hospital forms, a handful of early letters, and then almost nowhere.
Lauren.
Renee looked toward the family photographs.
Then back at her husband.
“You've been seeing Zoe’s birth mother.”
Marcus took one step closer.
“I met her.”
“Three times.”
His eyes changed.
Renee laughed bitterly.
“I can count.”
“Three visits show here.”
“One was not—”
“Did you go to that house three times?”
“Yes.”
Renee nodded slowly.
“Did Zoe go?”
Marcus stopped.
That answered.
Renee stood again.
“No.”
“Renee.”
“No.”
“Listen.”
“You took my daughter to meet her birth mother without telling me?”
“Our daughter.”
The correction was instinctive.
Usually Renee would have appreciated it.