REBECCA’S POV
I was hanging up Edmund’s coat when I felt it.
It was a Sunday evening. He had come in from wherever he had been, I hadn’t asked, I had stopped asking in the way that mattered, though I still asked out loud because the asking was part of the performance I maintained.
He had gone straight upstairs to shower, leaving his coat draped over the banister the way he always did, as if the house still had someone in it whose job was to follow behind him and put things where they belonged.
It did. It was me. It had always been me.
I picked up the coat to hang it properly in the entryway closet, the way I had done a thousand times before without thinking about it, my hands moving through the motion the way hands move through motions they have performed so many times they no long
