The last shot.
The texture of the baby bottle.
Miriam’s insistence that we sleep.
The twins’ strange dream that night.
The absence of crying.
The speed with which death came after an apparently loving family visit.
The tests took some time, but not too long.
There were traces of a strong, improper, brutally improper sedative in the milk remains recovered from one of the bottles that police found in the trash outside Miriam’s house, where she thought no one would look.
Sometimes evil doesn’t fall because of a great masterpiece.
He falls for domestic details that he underestimates because for years nobody dared to touch his kitchen.
Trevor sat outside my hospital room for hours.
I saw him once through the glass, hunched over, with his funeral shirt wrinkled, his tie loose, and an expression that in another time would have awakened compassion in me.
Not this time.
Not that night.
Because compassion also requires that the other person has made a courageous choice in time.
And he didn’t.
When I finally let him in, he closed the door and cried before speaking.
Not a beautiful cry, nor cinematic, nor dignified.
He cried terribly, like a man whose entire worldview, which he used as an excuse throughout his life, suddenly collapses.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
