Dinners at that table were usually filled with laughter and candlelight. It wasn't that Vivian sat there every night; she often came home late from work, but when she slid into her chair, the room lit up. Harvey and Ivy's easy banter echoed off the walls, and every now and then they'd drag her into a game: "Mommy, tell Daddy why the sky is afraid of the moon!" The three of them would burst into laughter, forks clattering, wine glasses clinking.

This morning the same table looked like a courtroom.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, turning the maple wood to gold, but each ray seemed like a spotlight illuminating the rot within. The scrambled eggs tasted like ash; the bacon crunched between his teeth like brittle accusations. He chewed and chewed, but nothing went down. Sin, he discovered, had a taste: metallic, sour, impossible to swallow.

"Are you okay?" Harvey's voice crossed the plates, soft and inquisitive.

Vivian's gaze was fixed on the fork trembling in her hand. The din