ANDREA

I watched the girl climb the stairs in her bare feet, and I knew before she reached the top that something about tonight was wrong.

It wasn’t the crying. Crying I could work with. A wife who wept and slammed doors was a wife I could steer, push her toward Dominic and away from him, make her loud when I needed cover and small when I needed room. I’d spent my time in this house learning exactly which strings moved her. The trouble was that the girl going up those stairs wasn’t ...