His razor aligned with military precision.
His watch on the marble tray.
His cufflinks in a neat little row.
My perfume positioned at an angle that matches the others.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Safe.
So why do I feel like I’m standing in a crime scene?
I look down at the letter again.
My heartbeat spikes so violently I feel it in my fingertips.
It’s the same size as the ones that used to come to the house when he first went inside.
The same weight.
The same paper stock.
I know.
Because I used to hold them.
Before I returned every single one unopened.
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, the letter dangling between my shaking hands.
“I didn’t bring this upstairs,” I whisper to the empty room.
The marble doesn’t answer.
“I didn’t…” My voice cracks.“…how did this get here?”
I look at the door again, as if Noah might burst in and explain everything away with logic and calm and rationality, but he stays asleep.
Oblivious.
The silence presses against my skull.
He was here.
The thought slams into me, horrifying and inevitable.
Someone was in the room.
Someone stood beside me.
Someone put this on my nightstand while I slept.
I feel dizzy.
The marble tiles blur for a second before snapping back into focus.
