She knocks on the door, three slow raps, patient little taps at my wooden door. I clutch at my head, rocking back and forth on the floor, my back thuds against the wall in time with my heartbeat. She whispers my name through the keyhole, soft and gentle, finishing with her usual giggle. She asks me to unlock the door. Weeping, I bring my crimson-stained hands in front of my face. Blood drips like rubies from my fingers to the hardwood beneath my feet. She shouldn’t be knocking on our bedroom door, when she is lying dead on the floor.