I pushed the nursery door open with a sharp, definitive shove. It hit the wall with a loud bang, echoing through the upper floor.
Both of them froze.
Brandon stood near Hannah’s crib, his hand resting on the railing, while Florence stood by the rocking chair, her face draining of all color as she looked at me. In the crib, little Hannah caught sight of me, and her desperate, sobbing cries suddenly shifted into a frantic, hopeful reaching motion.
“Lauren,” Brandon said, his face instantly smoothing over into that familiar, terrifyingly calm expression. “You’re home early. Is everything alright at the office?”
I didn’t answer him. I walked straight past my mother-in-law, my eyes locked entirely on my husband, feeling the cold, hard reality of what Dr. Lawson had tried to warn me about settling deep into my bones. I scooped my daughter up into my arms, pressing her trembling little body tightly against my chest, feeling her tiny heartbeat race against mine.
“We are leaving,” I said, my voice dangerously steady as I looked Brandon dead in the eye for the very first time. “And you are going to explain to the police why my daughter is terrified of her own father.”
