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The kitchen air felt thick, heavy with the sharp smell of iron, ozone, and the invisible dust of a shattered life. Evan’s hand, usually so steady when drafting architectural schematics or measuring stress-loads on structural steel, trembled as his fingers hovered an inch above Leah’s shoulder. The fabric of her linen blouse was torn, the threads frayed and stained dark where the blunt edge of the heavy wooden stick had bitten through skin.
"Don't move," Evan whispered, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost a rumble. "Leah, just stay still."
"I'm fine, Evan... really," Leah breathed, though the shallow, rapid rise and fall of her chest betrayed her. Every breath pulled at her bruised ribs, drawing a tight, involuntary wince that she tried desperately to hide from Ellie. "Just... take Ellie. Get her out of the room."
Ellie hadn't let go of Evan's jacket. Her small fingers were clamped into the dark canvas of his sleeve like anchor hooks. Her tears had slowed to shuddering sighs, her small body trembling against his thigh.
Sabrina stood near the kitchen island, her shadow stretched long across the polished hardwood by the hanging pendant lights overhead. The hockey stick in her hands seemed suddenly like a ridiculous, monstrous prop—an instrument of clumsy violence brought into a room meant for Sunday breakfasts and quiet morning coffee. Her knuckles were white around the grip, but her face was rapidly draining of color as the red haze of her fury began to clear, replaced by the cold, terrifying reality of what she had done.