The house hummed with the small, domestic noises of a Sunday evening—the oven’s soft tick as it cooled, the muffled drone of a cooking show somewhere in the background, the occasional scrape of a chair. On the surface everything looked ordinary. Mom laughed too loud from the kitchen, Lily texted on the couch, and the living room held the easy clutter of people who felt like they belonged.
But under that ordinary surface, everything in me was taut as a wire.
Mark came in with an armful of groceries, his shirt damp from the surprise rain outside and his hair sticking to the back of his neck in a way that made him look f*****g dangerous. He moved through the house with the calm of a man who knew what needed doing and whom nobody could rush. He set the bags on the counter and turned that way
