I locked my wife in the pantry under the stairs

The dinner. The soup. The grip on Emily’s arm. The pantry. The key. The tea. The thuds. The morning. The ring. The test.

When I say, “I locked the door,” he stops writing for a moment and looks at me.

“You understand what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“Even if charges come?”

“Yes.”

My voice does not shake.

It should.

But there is something steadier than fear now:continue reading …