“She did this,” Megan whispered.

My mother took another step forward, her face hardening into a flat mask.

“Don’t listen to her, Jake,” my mother said. “She’s hysterical.”

“She locks me in the spare room,” Megan said, the words spilling out in a panicked rush.

“Megan, stop lying to your husband,” my mother snapped, her voice dropping an octave.

“She drags me,” Megan cried, tears spilling over her cheeks. “She did this with the iron.”

My phone vibrated violently in my pocket, the sudden, harsh buzz cutting through the room.

I reached down and pulled it out, the screen illuminating the dim space.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I tapped the screen, and a photo opened.

The photo on the screen was blurry, taken from a low angle near the floor of our hallway.

It showed Megan’s bare ankles, red and raw, being dragged across the cheap linoleum toward the spare bedroom.

In the corner of the frame, my mother’s orthopedic shoe was planted firmly on the floor, her hand gripping Megan’s sweatpants.

My thumb trembled against the glass as I stared at the digital proof.