If anything, it sped up.
The splash hit Sophie’s face and neck in a single, brutal instant, and the sound that followed was something I will carry with me for the rest of my life, a cry so raw and full of pain that it seemed to tear through the room and leave everything else silent in comparison.
I was already moving before I realized it, dropping to my knees and pulling her into my arms, feeling the heat against her skin, hearing her scream, smelling the sharp, bitter scent of coffee mixed with something far worse—the realization that no one else was moving to help.
“Get that child out of here,” my father-in-law said, his voice loud and cold, pointing toward the door as if we were the problem, as if we were the ones who had brought chaos into his carefully controlled home.
For a moment, I couldn’t process what I was hearing.
