It was my wife’s flinch. It was the sickening realization that when Audrey heard the front door open, her most immediate, visceral expectation was that her husband had arrived home angry.
I crossed the expanse of the room with a speed that sent the shopping bag spilling its pastel contents across the Persian rug in my wake.
“Audrey,” I choked out, dropping to my knees so hard the impact vibrated through my shinbones. “Hey. Look at me.”
She didn’t stop scrubbing.
Her right hand continued its frantic, mechanical rhythm, dragging a harsh, bleach-soaked rag over her left forearm in short, panicked strokes. The skin was already inflamed, stripped raw and weeping. Her chest heaved with shallow, broken pulls of oxygen.
“I’m almost clean,” she whispered, her voice a hollow, scraped-out sound. “Please, please don’t be upset. I’m almost done. I promise.”
A cold dread coiled tightly in my gut. I reached out and clamped my hand over the rag.
She fought me.
It wasn’t a struggle born of physical strength, but of pure, unadulterated terror. It was the full-body, frantic thrashing of a cornered animal convinced that halting her task would result in an unimaginable penalty. I pried the chemical-soaked cloth from her trembling fingers and gripped both of her wrists with as much gentleness as my shaking hands could muster, forcing her to lift her chin.
“I am not upset with you,” I said, my voice thick.w
