My father sat in the vinyl armchair next to my bed.

He opened his laptop, the blue light reflecting off his glasses.

“Tell me exactly what happened at the house, Hannah,” he said.

“I need every detail for the affidavit.”

“Start with when you arrived home with the baby.”

I leaned back against the stiff pillows, closing my eyes to recall the nightmare.

“They had changed the deadbolts,” I said.

“Patricia told me it was for security, but she wouldn’t give me a key.”

“She said I was too forgetful to hold onto one.”

My father typed quickly, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern on the keyboard.

“And Courtney?” he asked.

“She was always there,” I whispered.

“She watched me nurse Owen.”

“She told me I was doing it wrong, that I was starving him.”

“Then, the day before yesterday, I tried to leave.”

“I had my bag packed.”

“Courtney blocked the hallway.”

“She grabbed my upper arms and shoved me back into the nursery.”

“I have bruises, Dad.”

“Under my sleeves.”

My father stopped typing.

He stared at the screen, his jaw muscles clenching.