The house felt different now.

Mornings found Mom at the stove, humming off-key to the radio and flipping pancakes. Paul stood right behind her, pouring coffee. His free hand would casually brush my hip as he passed, his fingertips lingering just long enough to press the scorching memory of last night into my skin. I’d smile at her over the rim of my mug, and she would smile brightly back.

Everything was ordinary. Everything was a perfect, terrifying lie.

Mid-afternoons in the laundry room. Mom was in the shower upstairs, the water drumming a steady beat overhead. Masked by the heavy, rhythmic tumble of the dryer, Paul would back me...