Dave stared at you for one long, ugly second, then grinned.
It was the kind of grin cruel men wear when they think someone has finally become entertaining again. Blood was still spreading beneath you in bright, terrifying streaks across the tile, your stomach was hard as stone under your shaking hand, and still he found room for amusement. Mrs. Higgins lifted her wineglass and smiled too, because humiliation always tasted sweeter to her when it came with an audience.
Then Dave pulled out his phone.
“All right,” he said, dragging the word out. “Let’s call Daddy.” He crouched just enough to wave the phone in front of your face like a toy he was considering letting a child borrow. “I want to hear how fast your hero starts begging when he realizes what kind of mess you’ve made.”
He scrolled through your emergency contacts, found the number he had mocked for years, and hit call.
You heard the ring once, twice, then a familiar deep voice came through the speaker, roughened by years in hot garages and early mornings. “Pumpkin?” your father said, and the old nickname hit you so hard it nearly split you open worse than the counter had. “You usually call after dinner. Everything okay?”
You tried to answer, but pain knifed through you first.
The sound that came out of your throat was half gasp, half cry, and it changed your father’s voice instantly. You could hear the shift like metal being drawn across concrete, all softness stripped away in one second. “What happened?” he said. “Put her on. Now.”
Dave laughed and kept the phone on speaker.
“She’s being dramatic,” he said. “She came home late, talked back to my mother, and now she’s rolling around on my kitchen floor acting like a soap-opera extra.”
You forced air into your lungs and said the words as clearly as you could.
“Dad,” you whispered. “I’m bleeding. Dave hit me. His mother shoved me into the counter. I think something’s wrong with the baby. 
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