The living room looked staged—beige furniture, expensive art chosen for appearance, not warmth. Tension filled the air.
Mark stood by the fireplace, pale, rigid, staring at the floor. His hands were buried in his pockets.
Then I saw Emily.
She wasn’t on the couch. She was curled into the corner on the floor, knees pressed to her chest, trying to disappear.
“Em,” I said softly.
She looked up. Her face was swollen. One eye nearly shut. Her lip split. But worse than the bruises were her eyes—empty, disconnected, trained not to react.
“Dad?” she whispered, uncertain.
I dropped to my knees and pulled her close. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
“She fell,” Linda announced sharply. “She was hysterical. Tripped and hit the table. We’ve been calming her all night.”
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