“You always do this,” Khloe said. “You act like your little perfect life makes you better than everyone.”
Emma stood carefully. The baby shifted beneath her ribs, a slow roll that usually made her smile. That afternoon, it only made her want to get out of the house.
She went upstairs to use the bathroom and breathe. Khloe followed. The argument moved into the narrow hallway, where the light was too bright and the carpet smelled faintly of dust and old cleaner.
“You think because your husband loves you and you finally stayed pregnant this time, you get to judge me?” Khloe hissed.
Emma turned. The words landed before the hand did. She had heard cruelty from Khloe before, but never aimed so cleanly at the place where Emma was most afraid.
“What did you just say?” Emma asked.
Khloe smiled. It was small and sharp. Then both hands came forward.
The fall did not happen like a movie. There was no long scream, no dramatic pause, no graceful tumble. There was only carpet ripping under Emma’s palm, a flash of stair rail, and the first brutal impact.
Her shoulder hit the wall. Her ankle folded. Her hip struck the edge of a stair hard enough to make her vision spark white. By the time she reached the bottom, warmth had spread through her jeans.
Blood.
