I spend thirty minutes in the shower when I get home, scrubbing away every trace of blood, every molecule of gunpowder residue. The water runs scalding hot, turning my skin red, but I welcome the pain. It helps me compartmentalize, helps me transition from the monster who executed a man in cold blood to the husband and father waiting for me in the other room.
But some stains don’t wash away so easily.
Rowan is in the nursery when I find her, rocking Sofiya to sleep. The scene is so serene, so pure, it makes my chest ache. How can I deserve this after what I’ve done tonight?
“There you are,” she whispers, looking up with a smile that falters when she sees my face. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Just a long meeting.”
She studies me with those green eyes that
