When I arrived, the porch light was on, casting a warm glow across the wooden steps.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

The house was quiet, smelling of lavender and chamomile tea.

Clara was sitting on the sofa, a thick wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Her face was pale, the bruising on her cheek now a dull green and yellow.

“Mom?” she asked, her voice small.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” I said, walking over to sit beside her.

I took her hand.

It was cold and trembling slightly.

“Did they find him?” she asked.

“They have Gareth,” I said gently.

“He is at the station now. He is talking.”

Clara closed her eyes, a long sigh escaping her lips.

“And Julian?” she whispered.

“The police are watching his house,” I said.

“He isn’t going anywhere.”

Clara leaned her head against my shoulder.

“I just want this to be over,” she said.

“I know, baby. I know.”

I stroked her hair, wishing I could promise her that it was.

But I knew the real battle was only beginning.

My phone lit up on the coffee table.