As they carried me upstairs, I passed the dining room where Marcus’s guests had left their plates.
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Steam still rose from the food.
A wineglass lay on its side beside Marcus’s chair, and the napkin at my empty place had been folded neatly beneath the silverware.
He had prepared the room to make my absence look ordinary.
Instead, every person at that table had become a witness to the lie.
My sister was outside near the ambulance.
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She tried to run toward me, but a responder held her back until the stretcher was secured.
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Her face was swollen from crying, and she kept saying my name as though each repetition could pull me farther from the basement.
