The dispatcher was still on the line when the noise came—a metallic crash from the backyard, followed by the sharp crack of my back door being forced open.
I grabbed the heaviest thing nearby—a cast-iron skillet—and pushed Sarah behind the kitchen island.
“Stay down,” I said, though my voice didn’t sound like my own.
The back door burst inward hard enough to slam into the wall. Rain blew into the kitchen in cold sheets, and Mark stepped inside as if he belonged there. He was soaked, breathing heavily, eyes locked on Sarah.
“There you are,” he said.
I held the skillet with both hands. “The police are coming.”
He barely glanced at me. “Then tell them the truth. She’s hysterical. She fell. She always turns everything ugly.”
Sarah tried to speak, but fear shattered her words. Something about that snapped inside me—maybe hearing him talk over her, maybe seeing how practiced he was, how certain he could rewrite reality right in my kitchen.
“No,” I said, louder now. “You did this to her.”
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