Whoever is on the stretcher is dead.

All the blood rushes from Marco’s head; he feels he might pass out. As he watches, a lock of long, jet-black hair escapes and falls down below the stretcher.

He looks back at the empty bed. “Oh, God,” he whispers. “Anne, what have you done?”

He runs out of the bedroom, glances quickly in the baby’s room. Cora is asleep in her crib. Panicking now, he races down the stairs, stops dead in the darkened living room. He can see the side of his wife’s head; she is sitting on the sofa in the dark, completely still. He approaches her, filled with dread. She is slumped on the sofa, staring straight ahead as if in a trance, but as she hears him approach, she turns her head.

She is holding a large carving knife in her lap.

The red, pulsing light from the emergency vehicles outside circles the living-room walls and bathes them in a lurid glow. Marco can see that the knife and her hands are dark—dark with blood. She is covered in it. There are dark splatters on her face and in her hair. He feels sick, like he might throw up.

“Anne,” he whispers, his voice a broken croak. “Anne, what have you done?”

She looks back at him in the dark and says, “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”