He opens his leg out across the divide between the two sides of their bed, feeling the coolness of the sheets on her side. Then he shifts himself until he is spread-eagle across the entire mattress, marvelling at how he ever slept any other way, how the bed could even fit two people without them accidentally smothering each other in their sleep. He listens for the sound of Petey, their earlier riser, tramping down the stairs. But Petey and his older brother are tucked away safely at Victor Street, where he dropped them off last night, far away from their parents, who, as far as Shawn is concerned, have absolutely no right to be parents at all.

Katriina didn’t come home last night. Not that he thought she would. After he left Victor Street, he drove his rental car back to the Paulsson house and sat outside in the car, watching Katriina through the windows as she walked from room to room in her blouse and bare legs. He told himself that he was just making sure she didn’t cut herself again, but deep down he knew he was spying on her. Hoping to see her do something – anything – that would give him a clue as to what the hell was going on in her head. When he first saw her cuts at the Paulsson house, he had been too shocked to ask her why she would do that to herself. He also couldn’t bear to hear her say the words out loud; in that moment, anything she said would have felt like a betrayal. But after he left and the shock turned to anger, all the unanswered questions began to eat away at him, driving him crazy. Compelling him to come back and look for answers. But Katriina did nothing but curl up on the couch, staring into space, until Shawn finally gave up and drove away. While he drove, he wondered if she would call, ask him to come pick her up and take her home. He thought of what he would say: if she loved that house so much she should just stay there. That house where she hid all her craziness. That house where she spilled her own goddamn blood, the cupboards papered with evidence of her breakdown. He thinks now about all the strange “quirks” he’d dismissed: her manic mornings up at five to make casseroles for the week, the way she constantly recited mantras to herself under her breath, that stupid elastic around her wrist. When he had asked what other secrets she was keeping from him, he hadn’t realized the biggest one had been staring him right in the face the whole time.