David didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop his phone. He reached out with his fork, took a slow bite of mashed potatoes, and chewed.

He looked down at me writhing on the floor of the house I’d bought for him, his eyes empty of a single shred of empathy.

“Stop crying,” he said, his voice calm. “You still have your right hand to wash the dishes.”

Whatever illusion of love I still had for the man standing over me died right there, replaced by a cold, freezing clarity. They weren’t just parasites.

They were something worse.

Shaking on the floor, fighting to stay conscious as shock pulled at me, my eyes drifted up. Past the blackened turkey. Past the blood on the granite. They locked onto the bezel of the new smart refrigerator.