My neighbor used to come over every day to ask for sugar, with her baby in her arms, and I thought she was just a disorganized young woman. Until one morning she whispered to me: “I don’t come for sugar, Mrs. Carmen… I come because it’s the only way he lets me leave the apartment alive.”
The pounding on the door wasn’t loud. That was the worst part. Adrian didn’t knock like someone asking for permission. He knocked like someone who already considered himself the owner of whatever was on the other side. Lucy turned pale. The baby stopped crying abruptly, as if he, too, had recognized the danger. I put…
