Page 47 of Blind Prophet

Motion-activated lights trigger along my path, casting a glow beneath cabinets and along the floor.

In a dreamlike fog, I start the coffee machine and place a slice of bread in the toaster. The same mindless routine I follow during five a.m. investor calls with Europe. Of course, Caroline had to see me like this—not the polished CEO who commands boardrooms, but the version that gets migraines and drugs himself into a comatose sleep.

The house manager stocks premium bread from an artisanal bakery here in Telluride, the kind Caroline used to special order in New York. I’d planned to have the chef prepare something more impressive, another carefully orchestrated performance like the quarterly earnings calls.

Fuck migraines.

I lost time with her. Time for what? For me to promise to sign a divorce agreement?

I should’ve done it years ago. She made it easy to ignore. It’s not like I haven’t had plenty else occupying my time.

Coffee in hand, on autopilot, I head to my office, but I slow as I pass the guest room’s open door. In the past, she never slept in a room with an open door. I shouldn’t risk waking her. A magnetic pull drags me into the room. I shouldn’t—the bed comes into view, and the temperature in the room drops several degrees. She didn’t sleep here.

Did she leave? How? A driver? Is she in Denver?

I rush down the breezeway, headed to my office. The security system silently logs my movement—a habit from running a company where every satellite position is tracked, every signal monitored. I’ll check the tapes. Access logs. Camera feeds. The same protocols we use to monitor orbital paths, applied to finding my wife.

Who can I call to find out where she’s staying in Denver? Who can I call to search hotel bookings? Or access her credit card charges?

I push through the glass door, mentally running through my resource list, when I halt.

There she is. Asleep on the leather sofa. The gas fireplace blazes and wraps the space in a comforting glow. Golden strands cascade around her, and there’s a fur throw pulled up over her waist. The light-pink silk pajama top is all Caroline. Demure, classic, and sensible. Perfect for travel. A memory of flicking the pearl-like buttons surfaces, of cupping her breast, tweaking her nipple…Shut it down.

Did she not like the guest room? Did she come here to read and fall asleep?

Minutes pass. Once again, inertia binds my legs and slows my thoughts. Her skin glows in the firelight. The prominent rosiness on her cheeks is absent. She washed her face, removing her makeup before falling asleep. Why sleep here?

My gaze lifts from Caroline, asleep in my home, to the landscapes hanging on the wall.

Did she recognize the shots? Did she feel more comfortable in this room?

I sink into the armchair closest to the sofa. Is it weird that I’m watching her? Maybe. But what else am I going to do? The sun won’t rise for a couple of hours. I missed the call with the European Space Agency, but I’m sure my staff handled it. I could check the Asian or European markets, but I lack the incentive. If there were any unexpected fluctuations, I would’ve been notified. As chairman of the board of Bedrock Advisory, I don’t trade. Brilliant men and women trade, keeping us at the top of the game.

I’m sure there are emails I should read. There are always emails.

Peace flows through my veins, and I settle deeper into the cushion. I set my ankles on the coffee table. My breathing slows until it matches the gentle up and down movement of Caroline’s rib cage.

I wish I’d found her earlier.

If I had, would I have moved her, or sat here, watching and memorizing?

“Dorian.”

The voice is distant. Familiar.

“Dorian.” She’s close.

I blink and squint into the golden light.

“You fell asleep and spilled your coffee.”

I look down. A brown stain spreads across my abdomen. It’s still damp, and the cotton clings to my skin.

“Doesn’t look like you spilled much.” She reaches across my lap, and light shimmers against the pink silk. “Doesn’t look like there was much in it.”

She holds the mug, smiling.

I rub a hand over my face, swallowing. “I must’ve fallen asleep. Again.”

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