His expression shifted—the mask slipping just enough to reveal what Sarah had been living with. “Move,” he said.
I didn’t.
He stepped forward, and I raised the skillet higher. My hands were shaking so badly I thought I might drop it. Somewhere in the distance, faint but growing louder, I heard sirens.
Mark heard them too.
He glanced toward the broken door, calculating. Then his eyes returned to Sarah, and what I saw there chilled me more than anything else: not love, not even anger—but ownership. Like she was something that belonged to him and had embarrassed him by escaping.
Sarah pushed herself up slowly, clutching her ribs. “I’m done, Mark.”
He let out a short, harsh laugh. “You think this is over?”
Then he lunged—not at me, but at her.
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