Olivia refused to return to the room, so Ed remained with her while I packed, my heart booming. I trudged back to the lobby, where the flames were simmering low in the grate, and Marie dragged my credit card through a reader. She wished us folks a pleasant evening, her smile absurdly broad, her eyes wide.

Olivia reached for me. I looked at Ed; he took the bags, slung one over each shoulder. I gripped our daughter’s hot little hand in my own.

We’d parked in the far corner of the lot; by the time we reached the car, we were starchy with flakes. Ed popped the trunk, stuffed the luggage inside, while I swept my arm across the windshield. Olivia clambered into the backseat, slamming the door after herself.

Ed and I stood there, at opposite ends of the car, as the snow fell on us, between us.

I saw his mouth move. “What?” I asked.

He spoke again, louder. “You’re driving.”

I drove.

I drove out of the lot, tires squealing on the frost. I drove into the road, snowflakes thrilling against the windows. I drove onto the highway, into the night, into the white.

All was silent, just the hum of the engine. Beside me, Ed gazed dead ahead. I checked the mirror. Olivia was slumped in her seat, head bobbing against her shoulder—not asleep, but eyes half-shuttered.

We coasted around a bend. I gripped the wheel harder.

And suddenly the chasm opened up next to us, that vast pit gouged from the earth; now, under the moon, the trees below glowed like ghosts. Flakes of snow, silver and dark, tumbled into the gorge, down, down, lost forever, mariners drowned in the deep.

I lifted my foot from the gas.

In the rearview I watched Olivia as she peered through the window. Her face was shiny; she’d been crying again, in silence.

My heart cracked.

My phone buzzed.

*  *  *

Two weeks earlier we’d attended a party, Ed and I, at the house across the park, the Lord place—holiday cocktails, all glossy drinks and mistletoe sprigs. The Takedas were there, and the Grays (the Wassermen, our host told me, declined to RSVP); one of the grown Lord children put in a cameo, girlfriend in tow. And Bert’s colleagues from the bank, legions of them. The house was a war zone, a minefield, air-kisses popping at every step, cannon-fire laughter, backslaps like bombs.

Midway through the evening, midway through my fourth glass, Josie Lord approached.

“Anna!”

“Josie!”

We embraced. Her hands fluttered over my back.

“Look at your gown,” I said.

“Isn’t it?”

I didn’t know how to respond. “It is.”

“But look at you in slacks!”

I gestured to my pants. “Look at me.”

“I had to retire my shawl just a moment ago—Bert spilled his . . . oh, thank you, Anna,” as I tweezed a length of hair from her glove. “Spilled his wine all over my shoulder.”

“Bad Bert!” I sipped.

“I told him he’s in a lot of trouble later. This is the second time . . . oh, thank you, Anna,” as I pinched another filament from her dress. Ed always said I was a hands-on drunk. “Second time he’s done that to my shawl.”

“The same shawl?”

“No, no.”

Her teeth were round and off-white; I was reminded of the Weddell seal, which, I’d recently learned from a nature program, uses its fangs to clear holes in Antarctic ice fields. “Its teeth,” the narrator had pointed out, “become badly worn down.” Cue shot of seal thrashing its jaws against the snow. “Weddell seals die young,” added the narrator, ominously.

“Now, who’s been calling you all night?” asked the Weddell seal before me.

I went still. My phone had buzzed steadily throughout the evening, humming against my hip. I would slip it into my palm, drop my eyes to the screen, tap a reply with my thumb. I’d been discreet, I thought.

“It’s a work thing,” I explained.

“But what could a child possibly need at this hour?” Josie asked.

I smiled. “That’s confidential. You understand.”

“Oh, of course, of course. You’re very professional, dear.”

Yet amid the roar, even as I skimmed the surface of my brain, mouthed questions and answers, even as the wine flowed and the carols droned—even then I could think only of him.

*  *  *

The phone buzzed again.

My hands jumped from the wheel for an instant. I’d stowed the phone in the cup well between the front seats, where now it rattled against the plastic.

I looked at Ed. He was watching the phone.

Another buzz. I flicked my eyes to the mirror. Olivia was staring out the window.

Quiet. We drove on.

Buzz.

“Guess who,” Ed said.

I didn’t respond.

“Bet it’s him.”

I didn’t argue.

Ed took the phone in his hand, inspected the screen. Sighed.

We cruised down the road. We hugged a turn.

“You want to answer it?”

I couldn’t look at him. My gaze bore through the windshield. I shook my head.

“I’ll answer it, then.”

“No.” I snatched at the phone. Ed held it from me.

It kept buzzing. “I want to answer it,” Ed said. “I want to have a word with him.”

“No.” I knocked the phone from his hand. It clattered beneath my feet.

“Stop it,” cried Olivia.

I looked down, saw the screen trembling on the floor, saw his name on it.

“Anna,” Ed breathed.

I looked up. The road had vanished.

We were rocketing over the edge of the gorge. We were sailing into the dark.