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"Get dressed," he says. "Pack a bag fast. We're leaving."

"What? Laszlo, it's two in the morning⁠—"

"Somebody's been in the house."

I lower the glass. "What?"

"I went into my study. Things have been moved." His voice is level as always but unsteady, which is new. "The lamp's on the wrong side of the desk. There are papers in the wrong order. My gun is in the wrong drawer. Somebody's been through that room and tried to put it all back. They were careful but not careful enough. Somebody stood in my house tonight while we were out and touched my things. So I want you dressed in five min⁠—"

"Laszlo."

“What is it?”

I've turned to put the glass down on the nightstand, and now I can't move my hand away from it because there's something sitting next to the lamp that wasn't there when I left this morning.

It's an ear. A human ear, cut off clean, sitting on the little dish where I put my earrings. There's no blood, really. Whoever did this either drained it first or took it off a body that was already dead, because a fresh cut on a living person doesn't look like this.

I start examining it like I'm suddenly on the operating table. Clean edges. No bruising. Done carefully, by someone who knew what they were doing. Then I realize I'm not at work, and I'm just me, standing next to a piece of a person, left on the side of the bed where I sleep.

"Laszlo," I say again. My voice breaks, and the last syllable of his name comes out high-pitched.

He crosses the room and sees it.

He picks up the dish, his hand shaking. Another first. He puts it down and turns to the window, then back, facing me.

"This is a message," he says. His voice cracks. He drags a hand down his face, then takes out his phone. "Someone was in my house," he says. The tone of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. So cold. "They were in my study. And they left something on my wife's side of the bed."

A pause. Whatever Constantine says, it's the wrong thing.

"No. Don't tell me it's handled." He's still not shouting. How on earth does he do that? "It's sitting on her nightstand, Constantine. For fuck’s sake."

Another pause. His eyes find me across the room and instinctively, I take a step back.

"Someone has access." His voice drops lower. "Think about how short that list is. Then think about whose name is on it."

He listens for a short while.

"Wake everyone."

He hangs up.

I start to talk but he lifts a finger to stop me. The look in his eyes… Oh God, the look in his eyes. I purse my lips, seal them shut. He stares at the severed ear, his breathing shallow and fast. Downstairs, the house is already coming alive. I can hear doors opening and closing, muted voices, because he must have made calls when he was still in the study, before he got to this room.

I'm standing in my slip in the middle of our bedroom, and my arms have come up around myself, but I don’t allow myself to loiter for long. I grab a travel bag and start throwing things in it before he chides me for not moving. Underwear, shirts, jeans, my work stuff… enough for a few days.

Inside, I’m a wreck. All the words I want to say to him are stuck in my throat because he won’t let me speak. Who is this man, right now? Where is my husband? This man in front of me, I don’t know him.

I've been living with this man for six months. I’ve thrown a scalpel at him for God’s sakes, and he didn’t ever get angry at me for it. But today, right now, I’m seeing a new side of him. A side I’ve never seen, not even when I bargained for Julien’s life. Not even with Charles. That time, he had control of the situation. He knew who did what and why, and he could deal with it in real time.

He can't keep still. He picks the dish up and puts it down. He paces back and forth, and keeps flexing his fingers. I get dressed, then fold a sweater and put it in the bag. He doesn't tell me to hurry. He just stands there with his back to me, and the not-hurrying is the thing that finally gets into my chest and stays.

"Ready," I say. “What about your stuff?”

“I already have a bag packed for emergencies,” he says. Of course he does.

He turns. For a fleeting moment his face softens as he looks at me, then he takes the bag off my shoulder and his hand comes to the small of my back.

"Stay in front of me on the stairs. Straight into the car. Don't stop in the hall."