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For a moment, I almost thought that I could hear her heartbeat.

“Good luck,” I said.

“I’ll call back in two days,” she replied.

We both hung up at once.

Three days later, the police rang my bell.

* * *

It wasn’t much of a surprise, though. Because the same night, about 11:15 p.m., I was looking for a scar-tissueless patch of inner arm on which to test my theory that writing advertising copy makes you a zombie when the bathroom door opened. It was Babs, her face wrinkling in disgust.

“Shit, not this again,” she said.

“Apparently so,” I said. “Forget something?”

She’d used her key to get in, which I—in the heat of the moment—had forgotten all about. I leaned against the bedroom wall as she rifled through our drawers, stuffing odd articles of lingerie into a big plastic bag.

“There’s a name for that problem of yours, you know,” she told me. “It’s called Borderline Personality Syndrome, and all it takes to get rid of it is a little effort. I read about it in Cosmopolitan.”

“A little effort,” I repeated. “Boy, I never would have thought of that. Thanks, Babs.”

And the argument began afresh. I didn’t get to talk a lot after that, as she went over the usual complaints with new vigor—my lack of commitment, my lack of imagination, my lack of passion.

“You blame everything about how you’ve fucked up your life on this thing with your Dad! If I’d been abused, I’d at least be sad, be angry, be something! But you’re just cold, Zara! There’s nothing inside you, and that’s why you do that to yourself—because you know that if you couldn’t feel pain, you wouldn’t feel anything!”

The gospel according to Babs, drawn from a bevy of self-help gurus, each one devoured, considered, and discarded within a week to make room for the next.

“No one could love you, Zara! You don’t even love yourself!”

Cold.

I could see my own breath.

And an overpowering smell of lilies filled the room.

Babs’ hand was on the knob when I suddenly yelled: “Wait, don’t!”

She turned back. Just for a second. And her lips curled back, showing even teeth.

“You sad bitch,” she said, quietly. And pulled.

The door fell open. Beyond it were the Twins.

And they ate her alive.

I suppose I could have done something to stop them, done anything other than just watch. But I’m not sure. Because, as they left, they looked into my eyes. And I saw them smile. Their teeth were made of glass.

Why should they love us? I thought. We’re their parents, after all.

I might have been able to help her. But probably not. And, at least in that respect, she was right. I just didn’t love her enough to die with her.

* * *

I’ve told you that Mary’s dead, but I can’t actually say for sure. After all, the police never found her body. Just her skin.

And I’ve remembered since then that, in Yle’en, the most loving tortures of all are reserved for those guilty of treason.