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I turn to face him.

This is the first time I’ve said it aloud. That I’ve confessed my knowledge of what happened to her.

I’ve always known what happened. Not just the night he killed her. I was there for that.

But after.

After he left her on the office floor like she was something spilled…

I’m not supposed to be here.

My feet are bare against the cold wood floor, and I press myself flat to the wall, trying to disappear into the shadows. My father’s office door is open just a crack, spilling a slice of yellow light into the dark hallway. I shouldn’t be able to hear them, but I can.

I always can.

His voice cuts through walls. Through air. Through me.

“God is watching, Eleanor,” he says. His voice is low, sharp. The kind of voice that wraps around your neck and squeezes. “He sees how you’ve failed in your duties as a wife.”

My mother’s voice is soft. It trembles, but it’s not broken yet. “I’m trying, Harold. I’m doing the best I can.”

“Your best isn’t good enough,” he snaps.

I flinch at the sound of something slamming, maybe his fist on the desk. The whole wall seems to shake. I want to run back to my room, pull the covers over my head like I usually do. But I don’t.

Something feels different.

This isn’t like the other fights.

“You’ve let this house fall into disgrace,” he says. “You’re lazy. Defiant. You don’t honor me as the man of God that I am.”

“I do honor you,” she says, but I can hear the break in her voice. It’s small. Cracked.

“No, you don’t!” he roars.

There’s the scrape of a chair, loud and angry. My breath catches. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my fingertips, in my teeth.

“You think you can fool the Lord? Fool me? I hear Him, Eleanor. He tells me everything. He tells me about your failures. Your sins.”

My mom’s voice rises, shaky but louder than before. “What sins, Harold? Loving you? Bearing your child? Being your damn puppet?”

Then it goes quiet.

So quiet it hurts my ears.

I curl my fingers into fists and press harder against the wall. I’m barely breathing.

When he speaks again, his voice is slower. Meaner.

“That mouth of yours… That’s the problem. You don’t know when to shut it. You speak out of turn. You question me. The Lord is disappointed in you, Eleanor. Just like I am.”

“I don’t care what the Lord thinks,” she spits.

I gasp. Just a tiny sound.

The air shifts, sharp, electric. Like something holy just cracked.

And then his voice drops, low, tight, and shaking with fury.