Marcus stepped closer, not touching her. The charcoal polo pulled across his shoulders. He smelled like the laundry detergent she used to buy and like fear.
"Nia. Please. Not like this. Not with—" He gestured helplessly at the open foyer, the photos, the shoes, the life that still looked, from the curb, intact.
"With what?" Nia asked. "With our daughter upstairs? With boxes that say KITCHEN and AMARA'S BOOKS in your handwriting? With a woman who has a garage code and opinions about paint?"
Simone's mouth tightened. "I don't have opinions about paint. Your daughter does. I only told her yellow was allowed."
"How generous of you."
"Nia," Marcus said.