I swung before I could think. The skillet struck his shoulder with a crack that sent him stumbling into the table. He cursed, slipped on the wet tile, and crashed to the floor. I moved between them, heart pounding, as Sarah screamed.
Red and blue lights flashed across the windows.
Mark scrambled up just as two officers rushed through the broken back door, shouting commands. He froze, chest heaving, hands half raised. The next moments blurred into noise: the dispatcher still speaking from my dropped phone, officers separating us, an EMT lifting Sarah onto a stretcher as she cried from pain and shock.
Then came the part that made my hands shake as I dialed another number from the hospital waiting room.
Not 911—I had already done that.
I called the detective handling Sarah’s case because one of the officers had shown me what they found on Mark’s phone after his arrest: screenshots of Mom’s messages, plans to “teach Sarah a lesson,” and one text from my mother that read, If she runs to Emily’s, I’ll stall her.
I sat staring at the screen, my fingers trembling so badly I nearly dropped the phone.
My own mother had helped set the trap.
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