I pushed the door open.
Sophia was on the floor beside the crib.
My wife.
My calm, stubborn, funny wife who once argued with a pharmacist for twenty minutes over a two-dollar overcharge because “principle still matters, Lucas.”
She was shaking so hard her teeth clicked.
One side of her face was swollen. Her lower lip was split. There were purple marks around both wrists, and one sleeve of her shirt was torn at the shoulder.
She looked at me like I was a ghost.
For one second, fear filled her eyes.
Then she recognized me.
“Lucas?”
Her voice cracked on my name.
I crossed the room and dropped to one knee beside her.
Before I could touch her, my mother appeared behind me.
Eleanor Hayes stood in the doorway wearing Sophia’s pale blue silk robe like she had bought it herself. Her silver hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head. Her lipstick was fresh. Her face was smooth and cold.
