WHEN I’M ALONE again with my feet pressed to the cool, smooth stone of my laundry room floor, I start to completely rethink everything I just did. Sinclair, at this point, has been gone for about thirty minutes. He said something about something coming up and how he’d be back tonight and I dimly recall murmuring some kind of agreement but I was so lost in my own thoughts I barely registered anything, even as the door closed shut behind him. And somehow, I find myself here, in my laundry room with my hands pressed against my washing machine. The cycle has been finished for a few minutes now, I think—five? Maybe more?—but I still haven’t unloaded my clothes from the washing machine to the dryer.
Have I said too much? In my odd, out of character moment of truth, did I reveal more about mys
