I stole a glance into De Lafontaine’s bedroom from my vantage point in the armchair, and I watched as she kicked off her shoes and unpinned the studs from her ears and turned down the blankets. Then, she paused. Her fingers grasped the edge of a sheet, bringing the cloth up closer to her face. In the dim light of the bedroom, I spied two tiny droplets of blood on the white fabric, as stark as roses in winter. De Lafontaine locked eyes with me, her gaze burning. Then she shut the door, severing the connection between us.
