I locked my wife in the pantry under the stairs

shake my head, backing into the damp wall.

“No. No, I visited your grave.”

“I know.”

The pain in his voice almost drops me to the floor.

“I heard her take you there,” he says. “Every year. She would come back and tell me how tall you were getting. What you said. How you cried. She used your grief like a leash.”

The sirens stop outside.

Heavy footsteps cross continue reading …