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"I know."

"He stood by our bed. He put a piece of somebody on your side of it, on the dish where you place your wedding ring when you take it off, and⁠—"

"I know, Laszlo." She puts the mug down harder than she means to. Coffee spills over the rim. I wipe it with the side of my hand, without thinking, and I hear her take a sharp breath.

"That," she says. "That's what's wrong with me."

"Wiping the counter."

"All of it. The counter, the books, the stuff you keep obsessing on. The way you're standing, so stiff. The way you talked to Daniel and Rafe and your brother." She takes another breath like she's bracing herself, and looks at me as though she’s forcing herself to. "You told me last night this wasn't pointed at me. I believed you. I still do. But I've spent all morning listening to you speak on the phone, and this isn't the person I’ve been getting to know. You haven't even slept, and I don't…" She lets her voice trail away, then starts again. "I've seen you angry. I was there when you killed Charles. I shouldn't have liked it, but this isn't that. This is you not being in control of anything. Without a direction. I've never seen that before, and it frightens me more than anything you've ever done to me on purpose."

I stare at her, finally understanding, and I don't fucking like it. She's right. And that's the problem, because I've spent my whole life making sure nobody is ever right about this. If I answer her honestly, I have to tell her the thing I've never told anyone, ever.

I could make a joke to diffuse the situation and avoid the real thing. It usually works, but not this time. So I say, "Sit down."

She just stares at me, unmoving. Damn, this woman.

"Please," I say.

I don't think I've ever said that word to her without a smirk behind it. This time there's no trace of humor in my tone. She sits down while I remain standing, because putting my body on a stool is too confining. I need to think this through. I put my hands on the counter and will myself not to move them.

"I was eight," I begin. I don't want to tell this story to anyone, least of all my wife, but I know she won't let it go. Besides, I frightened her, so I owe her the truth. "I woke up in the night. It was summer, the window was open, and I heard the cars come in. I thought it was my father getting back from wherever he'd been, and I wanted to see him. I wasn't supposed to be out of bed. I went anyway. I got as far as the door of the garage."

I stop to take a breath. She doesn't say anything. She's a surgeon. She knows how to let a wound talk, so she can figure out how to fix it. Even if it’s not on a physical body, she’d get the concept.

"There were four of my father's men inside, as well as him. And on the floor between them there was…" I stare at my hands, still where I left them. Good. "There was a man. What was left of one, anyway. I knew it was a man because of the shoes. Everything else was wrong. His face wasn't a face anymore. One of his arms was bent at an odd angle. He'd been opened up, like something had gone into him and tore him up, and there was part of him on the floor that should have been inside him. There was a smell I'd never smelled before. I know it very well now."

Manon's hand comes up to her mouth. Then she pulls it away, like she's remembered she shouldn't react, and puts it on the counter, near mine.

"I made a noise. One of the men turned and saw me in the doorway, then just looked at my father, who went back to doing what he was doing. My mother came and got me. I don't know who called her. She picked me up like I was much younger than eight, and carried me back to bed. She sat with me until it was light, and never said a word about it. Nobody ever mentioned it since. I went down to breakfast the next morning and found my father reading the paper like nothing had happened."

I take my hands off the counter, finally, and turn them over, looking at them.

"So. That's why I fix things, make them perfect. That's why I do the dead myself instead of paying someone. That's why a lamp on the wrong side of a desk can make me lose it. Because once, everything in a room was exactly where it should have been, but I opened a door, and there was a person on the floor who'd been turned into pulp. Nobody made it make sense. Nobody put him back together. So I do. Everyone who comes through my mortuary, I make whole again. I close what was opened. I set what was broken. I make them look like they died in their sleep, whether they did or not, and I line the fucking mugs up. I need my study to look the way I left it, because if things stay where I put them, then I know nobody has walked in during the night and turned the whole world upside down."

I let a moment pass. “That’s why I never do the killing myself. Until…” I let my voice trail away.

I look at my wife. I still can't read her expression, but maybe—I hope—she's starting to understand me.

"Last night, an intruder walked into my house and no alarm went off. They did what they were told to do. I'm not eight anymore, lacking control. But dammit, I feel like I’m back there, in that garage, helpless. I never meant for anyone to see that, least of all you."

A long pause ensues, then she picks up her coffee and drinks.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"Williamstown, a couple hours away from the house. We’re in Massachusetts."

She stops with the cup halfway down and raises her eyebrow. Clearly, she remembers the conversation we had at her parents’ house, when I passed on the drawings of the headstone. "You own this house?" she asks, tilting her head.

"Yes, I do, among others. This is the closest one to the plot." I nod at the window. "It's about four hundred meters up the hill. Come on. Let's go for a walk. Put a coat on. It's cold out."

"I don't care."

I nearly laugh because it's not the reaction I expected. She's in my sweater and yesterday's jeans and doesn't want a coat. Doesn’t matter. I put mine on her and do the buttons up myself. Good thing that she lets me. Outside, there's frost on everything and our breath goes up white in front of us.

We walk up the hill without talking. She keeps pace with me the whole way, close enough that her arm brushes against mine every few steps.

The plot is at the top, where the hill flattens out and you can see the river. Soon, a wide, massive headstone appears stark against the sky in black granite. On one side it says: Laszlo Novak - Loving Husband. On the right side: Manon Novak - Devoted Wife. Then underneath, United in Life, Never Apart Again. The entire thing is framed with decorative etchings and even a carved wreath at the top. I could have gone for marble, but durability is much more attractive. This headstone will stand the test of time.