Mary dropped the knife from my neck and stepped back. The blade clattered into the sink with a sharp metallic ring.
"Everything okay?" Becky called from the bedroom, voice tight.
"Yes," I called back. "Under control."
Mary turned the shower off. The sudden silence was loud. Water streamed down her naked body in final rivulets, tracing paths over her breasts, down the flat plane of her stomach, and between her thighs before dripping onto the tile with soft, irregular plinks.
She looked at me, water still beading on her lashes.
"So you want me to come with you," she said.
"It's the mission," I said.
"It's fine," she said. "I'll come."
"You're sure?"
She stepped back into the tub and resumed bathing like the knife had never been in her hand, running a bar of soap slowly over her shoulders, down her arms, the lather sliding over her skin in white streaks. "Who do you think called CGI?"
That stopped me cold.
