The knock hit like a second cardiac arrest. Blue and red lights crawled over the walls, turning her framed discharge papers into a crime scene exhibit, and Mallory understood with a sick lurch that survival was not the same as being safe. Her father’s words, once just background noise to her childhood, were now ink and audio, sharpened into evidence. The officers’ questions weren’t cruel, but they were precise, slicing through every story she’d ever told herself about what families do for each other. Ethan’s hand hovered near her shoulder, never quite touching, as if he knew that any kindness might break whatever thin shell was keeping her upright. When the older cop unfolded the last page and his expression changed, she realized there would be no going back to pretending this was just a difficult phase, no returning to the comfort of calling abuse a misunderstanding. The room smelled like burned dust and old coffee, and for the first time, Mallory saw her parents not as tragic, wounded people, but as something far more danger… Continues…