Megan flinched, shutting her eyes tight as a tear ran down her temple.

With one hard pull, I yanked the blanket off her.

The air in the room seemed to freeze.

There was no phone on the cushions.

There were no hidden papers.

Megan’s bare legs were exposed to the cold room, stretched out on the faded fabric of the sofa.

Across her shins and calves, the pale skin was mapped with deep, dark purple bruises.

Some of the marks were the shape of fingers, dug deep into her flesh.

Higher up on her thighs, there were thick, angry red welts that looked like rope burns.

Near her left knee, the skin was blistered and peeling from a fresh, raw burn.

I stared at her legs, the breath leaving my lungs in a cold rush.

“Megan,” I whispered, dropping to my knees on the hardwood floor. “What is this?”

My mother stood up from her rocking chair, her heavy winter boots clicking against the floor.

“She’s always been clumsy, Jake,” my mother said quickly, her voice losing its soft, concerned tone.

“I’ve told you how she stumbles around the kitchen when you’re not here to watch her.”

Megan let out a small, broken sob and covered her face with her hands.

I reached out to touch the edge of the blistered skin, my hand trembling.

The burn was hot, smelling faintly of cheap lavender ointment.

“This didn’t come from a fall, Ma,” I said, my voice shaking.

“She dropped a boiling pot of tea,” my mother said, stepping closer, her shadow falling over both of us.

“She’s careless. She doesn’t think about the baby.”

Megan slowly pulled her hands away from her face, her eyes locking onto mine.

“Jake,” Megan said, her voice cracking as she reached for my arm.

She gripped my wrist, her fingers digging in with a desperate strength.