Only the kitchen timer upstairs, still ticking intermittently like a crazed mechanical insect.
Mark laughed, a short, incredulous, offensively calm laugh.
“That doesn’t mean what she thinks.
She’s just a kid.
Sometimes she makes things up because she wants attention.”
I didn’t know what infuriated me more: that he called her a liar or that he said it tenderly.
As if discrediting her was also a way of caring for her.
The paramedic led me to the sofa.
Sophie didn’t want to leave my side, so we sat together.
They offered her a blanket.
She wouldn’t let go of her stuffed rabbit.
One of the officers asked Mark to stay back.
The other went up to the bathroom with a flashlight and a notebook, even though the light was on.
I heard drawers open.
I heard the toilet flush.
I heard the timer finally go silent.
And with each domestic sound, I felt something horrible: monstrosity could live even among small things.
Mark started talking too much.
That scared me too.
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