Marcus closed the door. Claire stood near the couch. Elena remained standing by the entry, coat still on, beanie still on, as if removing either would concede that she intended to stay.
"Start," Elena said.
Marcus ran a hand through his dark hair. "Claire and I — we knew each other in college. We lost touch. She contacted me three months ago. She's been going through a hard time. Her mother died. She was in town for the memorial. She was cold on the platform. I lent her the coat. I told her — Christ, Elena — I told her I thought you might have missed the connection in Cleveland because the app said the train was delayed, and I was wrong, and I'm sorry, and this looks like something it isn't."
Claire's laugh was short and without humor. "Don't."
Elena turned her head. "Don't what?"
Claire met her eyes. Up close, Claire Langford had the kind of face that photographs well in natural light and suffers under interrogation: pale, fine-boned, a mouth that had learned early how to apologize with its shape. Her eyes were gray-blue and tired.