On the soft, pale skin of her upper arm, just below the shoulder, was a patch of concealer. It was a shade too dark for her winter complexion. As she reached for the glass, the makeup smeared against the fabric of her shirt, revealing the ugly truth underneath.
It was a bruise. Not a bump from a doorway. Not a clumsy accident.
It was the size of a thumbprint. And below it, three smaller, fainter marks.
The geometry of a grip. Someone had grabbed her. Hard.
I went deadly still. The kitchen sounds—the hum of the fridge, the ice maker clattering—faded into a white noise. The only thing I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, a war drum I hadn’t heard since Fallujah.
I stood there, staring at the bruise, my mind cataloging the injury with forensic detachment. Yellow-green fade. roughly four days old. Blunt force compression.
“Sarah,” I said, my voice low. “What is that?”
She pulled her arm back, cradling it against her chest. “Nothing. I bumped into the pantry door. I’m clumsy, you know that.”
“Get me my drink!” Derek roared from the other room. “What is this, a tea party? I’m thirsty!”
Sarah flinched. It was a visceral, involuntary reaction—a dog expecting a kick. She grabbed the soda can and hurried out, her head bowed.
I followed her.
