My mother watched from the porch, her expression completely blank.

Melanie took a step back, but she did not call for help.

“Call Wyatt,” my father repeated, raising his arm again.

“Hey! Stop right there!” a voice yelled from the side of the house.

An electrician named Marcus, who had been hired to fix the outdoor meter box, came running around the corner.

His tool belt clattered against his thighs as he sprinted toward us.

He already had his mobile phone pressed to his ear.

“I see you,” Marcus shouted at my father. “I saw what you did to her.”

My father froze, his arm still raised.

“Get off my property,” my father warned.

“I’m on the phone with emergency services right now,” Marcus said, keeping his distance but holding his ground. “Yes, I need police and an ambulance at 1420 Elm Street. A man just assaulted a woman with a brick.”

My mother hissed something to Melanie, and the two of them hurried toward the front door.

I stayed on the gravel, pressing my hands to my face, careful not to wipe away the blood that was soaking into my collar.

I knew I needed the doctors to see the physical evidence exactly as it was.

As I lay there, I heard a dull, rhythmic thumping sound coming from the basement window of our house.

The window was low to the ground, covered by a heavy metal grate and boarded up with plywood from the inside.

I remembered Arthur Bennett, our elderly landlord, who supposedly had moved to a care home three weeks ago.

My parents had taken over the property management duties immediately after he left.

But the thumping from behind the plywood was desperate, like someone hitting the wood with a shoe.

“Sadie,” Marcus whispered, kneeling down beside me. “Don’t move. The sirens are coming.”