"You can't do this." Her voice was desperate now. "Please, I'm begging you?—"
"I can. And I will." I turned toward the door. "Tomorrow night, Angela. Don't make me do it for you."
"Wait—"
But I was already walking out, down the stairs, into the cold night air that felt clean after the suffocating warmth of her apartment.
CHAPTER 4: ELENA
Iwas twelve the first time I watched something die that I desperately wanted to save.
The mare had caught her leg in the fence, the old barbed wire my father had been meaning to replace for months biting deep into her skin. By the time we found her that morning, the sun barely up and the grass still wet with dew, the damage was already done. The cut gaped open, a compound fracture with jagged bone punching through hide slick with blood, and she was shocky, trembling, her eyes rolling white with pain and confusion.
I knew what it meant. Growing up in my father’s clinic teaches you things whether you want to learn them or not. You start to recognize fractures and shock and the quiet math of suffering.
But she'd been mine. I'd bottle-fed her as a foal when her mother rejected her, had taught her to trust my hands, my voice. She knew her name when I called it.
"Can't we try?" I'd begged anyway, hating how my voice cracked. "Please, can't we just?—"
"You know we can't." My father was already moving, his hands calm and practiced as he prepped the syringe. Pinksolution that looked too gentle for what it was about to do. "And dragging this out because it hurts you to let go? That's not kindness, sweetheart. That's cruelty."
I knelt in the dirt beside her. Pressed my hand to her neck where I could feel her pulse stuttering beneath the skin, too fast, too weak. She huffed out a breath that smelled like grass and fear.
“You can fall apart after,” my father said quietly, his eyes never leaving her. He always looked at the animal first. “Right now she needs you steady.”
So I stayed steady. I stroked her forelock and whispered that she was good, so good, the best girl. My father found the vein on the first try, the way he always did, and I watched the light fade from her eyes while my throat tightened until it hurt to breathe.
I didn't cry until after. Until we'd covered her with a tarp and walked back to the house and I'd locked myself in my bedroom where no one could see me break.
Twenty years later, I stood in my own doorway with my keys still in my hand, watching my husband smile at me from the couch. And I recognized the feeling. That small, awful shift in the air that tells you something is already past saving.
"Hey babe," Matt said, that easy warmth in his voice that used to make me feel safe. "Long day?"
The house smelled like him. His cologne mixed with the faint staleness of morning coffee and the Chinese takeout he must've picked up on the way home. Our home. The one we'd painted together three years ago, arguing good-naturedly about whether the living room should be "greige" or "warm taupe" like there was a difference. His boots sat by the door where he always left them, one tipped over on its side. The throw blanket I'd bought last Christmas was bunched up on the couch beside him. Matt sat slouched against the cushions, dark brown hair mussed like he'd just woken from a nap, a laptop open on his knees playingsomething he wasn’t really paying attention to, completely at ease in the home that still felt like ours.
Everything exactly as it should be.
My eyes tracked past his shoulder to the kitchen counter. His phone sat there plugged into the charger, screen dark and silent. He hadn't checked it. Angela's frantic warnings were probably stacking up unread, dozens of them by now, each one more desperate than the last. But he didn't know, couldn't know. Not yet.
He had no idea what was walking through the door.
The realization settled over me like frost. I'd prepared myself for defensiveness, for the damage control and careful lies of a man who knew he'd been caught. But he was just sitting there. Hair damp from the shower, T-shirt soft and worn, socks on, smiling at me like I was the best part of his day.
Like he hadn't buried himself inside another woman four nights ago.
Something in my chest loosened and drifted upward, light and far away. Anger would have been warmer, grief would have had weight, but what settled over me instead was the same cold precision that had steadied my hands as a dying horse lay against my knee while my father pushed the plunger. It was the same quiet focus, the same acceptance of what was coming, the same understanding that once you recognize the truth, dragging it out is its own kind of cruelty.
I felt like I was watching myself from somewhere just outside my body as I stepped inside and closed the door with a quiet click, set my purse on the entry table, and hung my coat on the hook. Each movement happened exactly the way it always did, steady and familiar, even though I barely felt connected to any of it.
"Yeah," I heard myself say. "Really long."
I moved through the living room, each step measured. Matt shifted on the couch, making room for me like he always did, but I walked past him into the kitchen instead. I pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water I didn't want.
The kitchen opened onto the living room, separated only by the island counter. I could see him over the granite, still relaxed, still smiling.
"So how was the clinic today?" he asked, reaching for the remote to mute the TV. "Any emergencies?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle." I set the glass down. "Hey, can I borrow your laptop? Mine's acting up again and I need to check my email."
