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The little American flag beside the steps lifted in the late-afternoon wind.
The porch light was already on even though the sun had not fully dropped.
Nothing outside warned me that something inside my house had gone rotten.
When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was the smell.
Bleach.
Not the normal clean-house smell, not the faint laundry-room smell, but sharp, raw bleach that stung the back of my throat.
Then I heard the basin.
A small metallic rattle.
Again.
Again.
The bouquet slipped from my hand.
White roses burst across the foyer and scattered over the marble floor.
For one second, my mind refused to understand the picture in front of me.
Audrey was on her knees in the living room.
My wife was seven months pregnant, barefoot, and shaking so hard the basin beside her trembled against the tile.
Her hair was loose around her face.
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