The table was set for three.

Victoria had made pasta and a salad. Ordinary food. Ordinary plates. Ordinary water glasses. She had put the bread in the center of the table like it was any other night. Elena sat in her usual chair with the thick residual heat of the afternoon’s claim still warm between her legs and the lower marks aching under her sweater in a deep continuous line. Marcus sat to her left. Victoria sat across from them both. The private frequency between Elena and Marcus was fully visible in the way they occupied the same side of the table and completely useless as protection against what the...