She froze, looking back to see him standing at the top of the stairs, her pink cotton bathrobe draped carelessly across his shoulders and tied haphazardly around his waist, his legs and feet bare. He’d been sleeping so soundly, she hadn’t wanted to disturb him. Or at least that’s what she’d told herself as she was rushing to get dressed. “Marcy, what’s happening?” “I have to go.” Why hadn’t she woken him up? she wondered now. Why hadn’t she told him where she was going? Surely she owed him that much. “Where? It’s not even seven thirty.” He looked around, as if despite his serious state of undress, he was considering coming after her. “We might have found Devon,” she said again, hurrying down the remaining stairs toward the front door. “Who’s ‘we’?” Was that the reason she hadn’t told Vic where she was going?
