Marcus came out of the kitchen then, tall in a charcoal polo, short waves neat, beard trimmed the way he kept it when he wanted to look steady. His face did something complicated when he saw her. He crossed the foyer and touched Amara's shoulder with a gentleness that was also urgency.
"Baby, go upstairs."
Amara pointed at the boxes, stubborn in the way of children who have been told half-truths and know it.
"But my room is almost packed."
Nia looked up at him. The honey light through the front window made the sealed cardboard look almost golden. Almost holy. Almost wrong.
"Packed for what?"