Her tone was calm, yet her eyes always carried a shadow, like a candle trembling in wind. I tried to ignore it. Maybe it was a simple quirk, the mark of a woman who liked things spotless. Still, the unease inside me grew.
One morning I pretended to drive to the grocery store but circled back through the alley. I let myself into the cottage quietly, my heart pounding with guilt and curiosity. The smell hit me first—a sharp metallic scent that didn’t belong to soap or bleach. I moved closer to the bed and lifted the sheet. Beneath it, dark stains bloomed across the mattress. My breath caught in my throat. It was bl00d. Not a few drops but heavy, old patches that no washing could erase.
I stumbled back, my knees weak. From the kitchen came the sound of humming, her voice light as if nothing was wrong. My mind raced with questions. Was my son hurting her? Was she injured herself? I could barely stand the thought.