Lily Thompson
Isabella’s scream shattered the silence like glass against tile.
I froze.
The venom I’d been hurling at Ryan dried up on my tongue. The words still hovered in my throat, burning, acidic, unsaid. We both turned at the same time—him from across the kitchen island, me with my fists clenched so tightly my nails had marked crescent moons into my palms.
She stood in the hallway, small and trembling, her face contorted in horror, red blotches already forming beneath her teary eyes.
“Mommy?” she whimpered, her lower lip trembling.
I rushed to her before I could think. Dropped to my knees, arms open, the fight draining out of me like a punctured balloon.
“Baby, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whispered, hugging her tightly, but her tiny frame shook harder in my arms.
