I heard soft hums from downstairs, indicating he was working alone at times. He never demanded I join him. At night when he was done, he'd cuddle in bed with me. I hated to think it, or admit it; I had begun to look forward to him holding me at night. I slowly peered one eye open and then another, finding myself in Catch’s bed alone. I was standing outside myself, watching the breaking unfold and unable to get back in my body and stop it. No matter how hard I tried to jam the facts into my head—a psychopathic killer would eventually turn on me—I wanted to rationalize: he’d never really hurt me, and all the things he had done were to help me. My stupid heart had injected itself into the equation, comforting me with its ignorance. The bathroom door was ajar and the shower was running. Thinking it was started for me, as Catch tended to do if we arose at the same time, I slid out of bed. Inside the shower, behind the clear glass shower door slightly covered in fog, Catch stood under the shower stream, soaked from head to toe.
