POV: Rosalind
I woke alone and immediately checked the driveway, even though I already knew Daniel's car wouldn't be there.
The space where he always parked was empty. Just concrete and morning shadows and the oil stain that had been there for years marking the spot where his car should be. I stood at the bedroom window staring at that empty space like it might tell me something I didn't already know.
He wasn't home. He wasn't coming home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I showered. The water ran hot enough to hurt. I dressed in clothes that felt wrong—too casual for the kind of day I was living through, too formal for staying home alone. Everything felt wrong.
Downstairs, I set two coffee cups on the counter. Automatic gesture. Muscle memory from twenty-two years of mornings. Then I stared at the second cup—the one Daniel wouldn't use—and put it back in the cabinet.
One cup. Just me. That's what this morning was.
I made coffee. Drank it standing by the sink. Watched the neighborhood wake up—cars backing out of driveways, people walking dogs, the mail truck making its rounds. Normal Thursday morning. Normal lives continuing while mine hung suspended in the space between Daniel leaving and whatever came next.
My phone buzzed at nine.
A text from Daniel: "Running late."
Two words. No explanation. No location data attached. No timestamp visible. Just the message and the understanding that he was somewhere, doing something, still alive enough to text.
I stared at those words. "Running late." Like he'd been delayed at the office. Like he was stuck in traffic. Like this was ordinary instead of the most terrifying message I'd ever received.
It should have comforted me. He was alive. He was capable of texting. He was still in control enough to send updates.
But it alarmed me more. Because "running late" meant the meeting hadn't concluded. That he was still in whatever situation he'd driven into. That "late" suggested an expected timeline that had been exceeded. That something was taking longer than planned.
I texted back: "When will you be home?"
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then:
"Soon."
Soon. Another non-answer. Another placeholder that meant everything and nothing.
I couldn't stay home. Couldn't sit in the empty house waiting for the next vague text that would tell me nothing while pretending to tell me something.
I went to the winery.
The drive was automatic. I varied my route—Theo's training kicking in even though Daniel was the one in danger, not me. Parked in a different spot. Checked the street before entering.
Inside, the winery felt wrong too. Too quiet. Too normal. Bottles on shelves. Paintings on walls. Everything exactly where it should be while nothing felt right.
I started moving bottles. Not for any reason. Just to do something. Rotated stock that didn't need rotating. Reorganized sections that were already organized. My hands needed occupation. My mind needed distraction.
My assistant Emma watched me rearrange the Bordeaux section for the third time.
"Mrs. Steele? That's already sorted by vintage."
"I know. I'm just—" I stopped. "I'm just checking."
"Checking what?"
"That everything's correct." I set down the bottle I'd been holding. "Can you inventory the reserve cabinet? I want to make sure nothing's been miscounted."
"We did that Tuesday."
"Do it again." My voice was sharper than intended. "Please."
She went to do it. I stood there feeling foolish. Feeling desperate. Feeling like if I could just control the winery's inventory, maybe I could control something. Anything.
The bell above the door chimed.
Luca walked in.
Not his usual time. Not a planned visit. Just my son appearing in the middle of a Thursday afternoon like he'd known I needed someone.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey." I crossed to him. "You're not at work."
"Took the afternoon off. Told them I had personal business." He looked around the winery. "Has Dad checked in?"
"Yes. This morning. He said he was running late."
"That's all? Just 'running late'?"
"That's all."
Luca nodded slowly. Processing. "People at work are pretending nothing's happening. Business as usual. Client meetings. Performance reviews. Like Dad's just working from home instead of—" He stopped. "Whatever he's actually doing."
"It's called normalcy as performance," I said. "We're all doing it."
"Are we performing for them or for ourselves?"
"Both." I moved to sit at the bar. Gestured for him to sit beside me. "If we act normal, maybe nothing bad can happen. If we maintain routine, maybe reality will follow our example."
"That's magical thinking."
"It's survival thinking. The only kind available when you can't control actual outcomes."
We sat in silence for a moment. The winery hummed around us—Emma in the reserve room, afternoon light through windows, the espresso machine gurgling.
"Do you think he's okay?" Luca asked quietly.
"I think he's still capable of sending text messages. Beyond that, I don't know."
"Show me the message."
"Luca—"
"Please."
I pulled out my phone. But I didn't hand it to him. Didn't let him see the message. Instead I said, "He told me he's running late. That he'll be home soon. That's all I know."
It wasn't quite a lie. More a selective truth. I didn't show him the message because then I'd have to show him how vague it was. How meaningless. How much terror could be contained in two words that pretended to be reassuring.
"Okay." Luca stood. "I should get back. Just wanted to check on you."
"I'm fine."
"No you're not. But you're managing. That's close enough."
He kissed my cheek. Then he left, and I was alone again in the winery with Emma counting bottles in the back room and Daniel's message burning a hole in my phone.
"Running late."
I stared at it. Memorized the exact wording. The time stamp. The absence of any real information. Then I deleted it.
Not because I wanted to forget. But because having it in my phone felt like holding evidence of his absence. Like admitting he wasn't coming home normally. That this text was something significant instead of routine.
So I deleted it. Removed the proof that Daniel was somewhere doing something that had gone past schedule. Made my phone clean again. Empty of his words.
But the message stayed in my head. Perfect recall. Every letter.
Running late.
Two words that meant everything was wrong but nothing had exploded yet.