Chapter 6 - The Stained Floor
Sarah takes a slow step backward, her wet sneakers leaving a sticky print on the wood.
"What happened with Leo's bed, Mark?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.
Mark turns his head slowly, unable to hit her eyes.
"Before we met," Mark mutters to the floorboards. "My nephew."
"You knew she did things like this?" Sarah presses, her knuckles turning white around her child's back.
"You let her stay in our house?"
Mark reaches out a hand toward the baby's wet head.
"Sarah, she's sick, she doesn't—"
Sarah slaps his hand away with the flat of her palm.
"Don't touch him."
She turns toward the hallway, her wet shirt clinging to her shivering skin.
She grabs her car keys off the small entrance table by the laundry basket.
"Sarah, wait," Mark says, taking a step after her.
"Where are you going?"
She stops at the front door, her hand resting on the brass lock.
May you like
She doesn't turn around to look at him, nor at the quiet older woman standing up from the floor to straighten her light blue shirt.
"To a house," Sarah says quietly, "where milk is just something you wipe up."
