I take a picture with my phone. Then another from a different angle. Then a close-up. I document everything.
I shower, dress carefully in clean clothes, and put on the cardigan Deacon bought me for Christmas three years ago—back when he still pretended to care about me as a person rather than seeing me as an obligation.
At seven, I hear movement in their bedroom. The shower runs. I hear Deacon’s electric toothbrush humming. Normal morning sounds, as if yesterday’s violence never happened.
At eight, I go downstairs. They’re in the kitchen—Deacon scrolling through his phone while drinking coffee, Sloan eating yogurt and reading something on her tablet. Both of them completely at ease.
Neither looks up when I enter.
“Good morning,” I say. My voice is steady.
“Morning,” Deacon mutters without lifting his eyes from the screen.
Sloan says nothing.
I pour coffee, my hands perfectly steady now, and sit at the kitchen table. The same spot where I stood when he hit me. I sip my coffee and wait.
