The garage door motor hummed. The interior door opened. A stylish Black woman of about thirty-four came through carrying two moving boxes, her arms sure, her expression the expression of someone who belonged in the choreography of this house—until she saw Nia. She froze.
"Oh."
Nia turned. The camel coat swung with her. The cream blouse caught the light. Her voice stayed polite because politeness was the last armor she had that still fit.
"Who are you?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. His hands opened and closed once at his sides.