I smelled the blood before I saw it. Not metallic, not sharp—just wrong, threaded through the lemon cleaner and the last of the roast garlic like a secret no one wanted to own. Sarah sat on the rug she’d once scolded us for stepping on with wet shoes, her blouse blooming red at the collar, the pen abandoned beside the unsigned deed. My son’s laughter spilled from the kitchen, too loud, too bright, the kind of sound you make when you’re trying to drown out the wet hitch of someone else’s brea… Continues…
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