“He is my son,” Arthur said, his voice cracking slightly. “But he is not the man I thought he was.”

He stood up, his joints popping in the silence.

“I must take Eleanor home,” he said. “She is in no condition to stay here.”

He walked into the dining room and helped Eleanor up from her chair.

She was no longer crying, but her eyes were red and unfocused.

She did not look at me as Arthur guided her toward the door.

“Goodbye, Monica,” Arthur said as he opened the door.

“Goodbye, Arthur,” I said.

They walked out into the night, the door closing quietly behind them.

I stood in the hallway for a long time, listening to the silence of the house.

It was a large house, five bedrooms, four baths, filled with expensive furniture and art we had bought to impress people.

But now, it felt empty.

And for the first time in years, it felt safe.

I walked into the kitchen.

Laura was wiping down the granite countertops, her movements methodical and calm.

The pots and pans were washed and stacked neatly by the sink.