Behind her, the heavy oak door swung open with a soft, oiled click. Connor strode into the room, his dark suit jacket slightly rumpled from the long drive home from the downtown office, his white collared shirt open at the collar. His face was etched with the panic of a man who had sensed disaster through miles of traffic.
“Amy,” Connor said softly, his voice cutting through the sterile hum of the refrigerator.
Amy turned slowly, the tears streaming down her pale cheeks unchecked, catching the harsh under-cabinet lighting. She pressed Leo tighter against her chest, the infant’s white onesie damp against her collarbone. Connor reached out, his hand hovering in the empty space between them, his fingers curling with helpless worry.