Aaliyah's hands stopped on the towel she had been folding. She knew that cardigan before she knew she knew it. The particular give of the wool, the way the buttons sat a little too far apart, the faint ghost of a perfume that was not hers and had never been hers—not the bright citrus she wore, not the clean laundry scent of the house, but something older, powder and jasmine and the kind of drugstore elegance that clung to certain women like a second name.
"Where did you get that?"
Elias beamed, short coily hair bright with pride.
"Dad's office. The nice lady forgot it."
Marcus's amusement left his face the way weather leaves a window. He set the phone face down on the cushion.
"Give that to me, buddy."
Aaliyah turned fully toward him then, the towel forgotten against her hip, and the late light found the long braids she had tied back that morning and made them gleam.