The black modern farmhouse loomed ahead, porch lights blazing too bright for 8:50 p.m. The whole place glowed like a showroom.
The bag with the cake stand nestled inside it banged softly against my knee as I climbed the steps. It had weight. Enough to knock someone out if I swung hard enough. I rang the doorbell. For once, Apollo sat obediently beside me, his tongue lolling.
The sound echoed. For a second, I saw Alexis again—her frightened face, Brooke's fingers digging into the soft skin of her upper arm.
The door swung wide. Jason August filled the frame.
He wore dark joggers and a white T-shirt that looked ironed, probably by Brooke. His hair was mussed, deliberately. He was holding his phone at shoulder height, the screen's glow reflected in his glasses.
He frowned, not at me, but at whatever was on the screen. Then he seemed to register that there was a person in front of him. A neighbor. An intrusion.
"Hey," he said. "Dahlia, right?"
He didn't indicate that he knew I'd been in his house earlier today. "Sorry to bother you so late."
He smiled then. Boyish, handsome. And he knew it, too. He and Brooke both liked pretty things. "What's up?"
I lifted the cake stand carefully. My voice was steadier than my hands. "I borrowed this for the Easter thing a few weeks ago. I figured I'd bring it by."
"Oh. Right. Thanks." His forehead pinched. He took the stand from me as if it might bite him. He stepped back, as if about to retreat without inviting me in. "Uh, Brooke?"
"It goes in the cabinet over the fridge." Brooke's voice came from somewhere down the hall. When she appeared, he handed the stand to her.
"Well, I'll leave you ladies to it." He gave me a wave and a grin before he disappeared deeper into the house. "Good to see you again!"
Brooke rolled her eyes at his back, then turned her attention to me. Her hair was loose around her face. She had a wine flush along her chest, just visible at the edge of her silk camisole. Her feet were bare, her toenails the color of dried blood.
She placed the cake stand on the narrow entry table. "Sorry. He'd lose his own head if it weren't attached to his neck." She glanced at Apollo, then stepped forward and pulled the front door mostly closed behind her until it rested against her hip. The muted sound of the television drifted out.
"I won't keep you." My throat felt tight, head buzzing. "I wanted to talk for a minute."
Her eyes sharpened, scanning my face. In the harsh porch light, the lines around her eyes and mouth were more pronounced. "So, talk."
"I'm worried about Alexis."
Brooke stiffened. "What?"
I kept my voice low, even. "I've seen some bruises on her arms. I just wanted to make sure she's okay. That you're okay."
"What are you talking about?"
"I just know things can get… overwhelming. With kids." I flicked my gaze past her, toward the sound of the TV. "With everything you have going on."
"Overwhelming," she repeated, like it was a foreign word. Her jaw worked. Her face reddened. "You saw a bruise and thought what, exactly? That I'm beating my daughter?"
The neighbor's porch light across the street clicked on. A car rolled down the street, engine low, music a muted pulse.
"No, that's not what I meant."
"Sure, it is." Her face shifted, emotions passing across her features in rapid succession—fear, calculation, embarrassment, fury. Then something hardened. "Falcon has special needs. As you well know. He can be violent during meltdowns. You have no idea what it's like living with that."
"I know it's hard," I allowed. "But those marks on her arm?—"
"He choked her, last week." Brooke barreled on, voice low and fast, as if, if she kept talking, she could outrun me. "He gets into these states, and he's so much stronger than he looks. He throws things. He hits. He bites. He went after me with a fork the other day, and where was Jason? At work, again. At the gym. On his phone. Telling me to just stay calm."
A thud sounded from somewhere inside, followed by a burst of high-pitched laughter.
"Alexis—"
