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Daniel’s Point of View
I was stunned by what Mom told me.
“Aunt Mary?”
“Yes.”
The bedroom air hung thick, humid, almost syrupy with the layered ghosts of every fuck that had happened in this house over the past three months. The rug beside her bed was missing, so I assumed it was out being laundered, as it had been before.
It was never just one scent that circulated; it was a cocktail that shifted with the hour. Right now, it was Mom’s jasmine-vanilla perfume, the sharper metallic tang of Emma’s period blood still drying in my memory, like the scent was hard-wired into my animal brain.