Calla’s POV
I fold the printout in three movements — one, two, three — slide it under the notebook, close the hollow book, press it back onto the shelf. My hands are not shaking. I make them not shake through a specific act of will that costs me something I can actually feel leaving, some reserve I won’t get back tonight. The spine is protruding. Half an inch past its neighbors, maybe more. I do not have time to fix it, I do not have time —
I step back to the center of the room. Cross my arms. Drop them — too defensive, too guilty, the posture of someone hiding exactly what I am hiding. Let them fall to my sides. The lamp is on. There is no version of this where I am not standing in my husband’s locked study at eleven-forty-seven at night, and the footsteps have stopped outside the door.
