The dust motes hung in the afternoon light slanting through the window. Somewhere downstairs, my mom was humming while she sorted through old photo albums. She didn't know. She never knew.

Mike's weight shifted on the bed frame. The springs creaked. I heard him yank the fitted sheet free, the elastic snapping against the corner of the mattress. He was always so deliberate, so careful when he was nervous. Like he thought if he moved too fast, something might break.

Then he lifted the mattress to fold the sheet properly.

The sound stopped.

"What the—" His voice cracked on the syllable. I looked up. He had the mattress propped against his chest, staring down at the box spring like he'd found a dead animal. His fingers moved slowly, carefully, lifting something between two fingers like it was contaminated.

The blade caught the light. Small. Cheap. The kind you buy in a pack of ten at the drugstore. But I knew the weight of it in my hand. I knew the feel of the metal warming to my skin. I knew the stain on the edge that never came off no matter how hard I scrubbed.

Mike's eyes were dark, unreadable, fixed on me. He hadn't blinked.