“THAT WASN’T FROM A DOOR HANDLE.”

Calmly.

Too calmly.

“Sophie,” she said firmly, “go wash your face.”

My daughter didn’t move.

Rebecca’s jaw tightened.

“I said go.”

Sophie clutched my arm harder.

That tiny movement changed everything.

Rebecca saw it too.

And for the first time since I’d walked into the house—

she looked nervous.

I stepped between them.

“We’re taking her to the hospital.”

“No.”

The answer came instantly.

Sharp.

Automatic.

Too fast.

My chest went cold.

“What do you mean no?”

“She doesn’t need a hospital.”

“She has bruises shaped like fingerprints on her back.”

Rebecca’s face lost color.

Just slightly.

But I saw it.