There had always been something wrong about Mark Allan.

Everyone else saw charm.

Polished smiles. Expensive trainers. Respectful nods to teachers. The golden-boy act perfected down to the smallest detail.

But you saw the pauses.

The way his hand lingered too long on her elbow when guiding her somewhere. The way she checked her phone constantly. The way she apologized for things that weren’t her fault. The way her laugh had grown quieter over the months.

Calculated.

Controlled.

Like every word out of him had been rehearsed beforehand.

You noticed how she stopped wearing certain clothes. How she flinched at loud voices. How she drifted away from friends without even realizing it.

Isolation disguised as love.

Possessiveness disguised as protection.

Everyone else called him devoted.

Your gut called him dangerous.

And your gut had never been wrong.

The clock crept past midnight. Rain battered your bedroom window hard enough to sound like gravel. The house felt too still.

Then came the knock.

Not loud.

Not confident.

Weak. Shaky. Barely there.

Three uneven hits against the front door.

Your chest tightened instantly.

You already knew.

You were moving before thinking, feet cold against the tiles as you rushed down the hall. The porch light cast a pale cone through the frosted glass.

A shadow stood there.

Small.

Curled inward.

You opened the door.

The wind nearly shoved it out of your hands.

And there she was.

Caoimhe.

Barefoot.

Soaked through.

Hair plastered to her face and neck like dark ropes. Mascara smeared under red, swollen eyes. Her hoodie hung half off one shoulder, stretched and twisted like someone had grabbed it too hard.

Little Lizzie clung to her chest, tiny fists knotted into the fabric of Caoimhe’s top, crying silently with hiccupping breaths.

Both of them shaking.

Not just cold.

Fear.

Real fear.

The kind that sits in the bones.

Caoimhe’s skin looked ghostly under the porch light. Her lip was split. Purple fingerprints marked her wrist. A darkening bruise bloomed along her collarbone.

Her eyes wouldn’t focus properly.

They kept darting behind her like something might be following.

Like he might be following.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

There it was.

The thing you had been waiting for.

Dreading.

Proof.

Every suspicion solid and ugly and undeniable.

Mark Allan.

You stepped aside immediately, pulling them both inside and slamming the door against the storm. The lock clicked into place, louder than usual.

Too loud.

Too final.

Caoimhe didn’t speak.

Didn’t even try.

She just stood there dripping onto the floor, clutching Lizzie so tightly the child whimpered.

Her hands were trembling so badly her teeth chattered.

Shock.

Pure shock.

Lizzie buried her face into her sister’s neck, tiny body rigid, like she had learned not to make noise.

That hit harder than anything else.

Kids didn’t go that quiet unless they’d been taught to.

You grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around both of them carefully, slow movements, gentle, like handling glass. Caoimhe sagged the second the fabric touched her shoulders, like the last of her strength had finally given out.

She smelled like rain and fear and something metallic.

Her knees buckled.

You caught her before she hit the floor.

She weighed almost nothing.

Too light.

Too fragile.

Not the loud, stubborn, bright girl who used to run through life laughing too hard and talking too fast.

This was someone worn down.

Whittled away.

Piece by piece.

Your anger rose slow and steady, not explosive but heavy. The dangerous kind. The kind that stayed.

Every memory replayed.

Every time she defended him.

Every excuse.

Every forced smile.

Every time people said you were overreacting.

You weren’t.

You had never been.

You guided them to the couch. Lizzie curled into your side instantly, small fingers locking onto your shirt like you might disappear too.

Caoimhe finally looked at you.

Eyes glassy.

Lost.

Terrified.

That look alone told you everything.

Something had happened tonight.