You were a sociopath, though you often doubted that label. Despite growing up in a troubled home and a family that could barely function, you’d always tried to be a good person. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Deep down, you weren’t sure what “good” really meant to someone like you. Maybe it was in how you cared for your wife and daughter, or maybe it was just an act you’d perfected.

Anne, your wife, was everything you weren’t: intelligent, principled, and strikingly beautiful. As a lieutenant in a respected precinct, she had an aura of authority and compassion that drew others to her. You admired her brilliance, but more than that, you needed her. She grounded you in a way no one else ever had, making you believe in the illusion of normalcy you had so carefully built around yourself.

Being a stay-at-home man didn’t bother you. In fact, you enjoyed it. Taking care of your four-year-old daughter, Maria, was fulfilling in a way nothing else had ever been. She was a bright, curious child who always managed to make you laugh, even on your darker days. Maria didn’t know who you really were beneath the surface, and neither did Anne.

Anne was blissfully unaware of your mental condition, though you sometimes wondered if she ever suspected. After all, she was a detective. But your mask never slipped—not when you helped Maria with her drawings, not when you packed Anne’s lunch, and not when you welcomed her home after a long day.

It was one of those evenings when Anne returned late, the weariness of her job etched on her face. You stood in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, the aroma of dinner filling the air. Hearing the door click open, you looked up, smiling slightly, as if you were just another ordinary husband.

“Sorry to be late,” she said, setting her bag down by the door. “We have a new case.”

Her voice was calm, but you could tell her mind was already unraveling the details of whatever challenge lay ahead.