"Morning," I reply, hoping the tremor in my voice isn't noticeagle. "Sleep well?"
Mark nods, reaching past me for the coffee pot. "Like a baby. You?"
I lie. I always lie. "Oh you know me. Out like a light."
Uh huh. He knows. The truth is, I haven't slept soundly in months. Years. Not since that horrendous night. The night that warped my world, though no one but me seems to rember my devastation.
As Mark busies himself with breakfast preparations, I find my gaze drawn to the knife block on the counter. Five gleaming handles protrude from the wood, a sixh space glaringly empty. No, n
ot by knife.