“What happened?” Richard asked, sharper than he meant to. The fear in his chest had a way of sharpening everything.

Grace cleared her throat. “A little accident.”

“A little accident,” Richard repeated. “He’s bruised.”

Oliver flinched, as if the words were loud enough to bruise too. Grace’s hand settled on the boy’s shoulder. “May I finish? Then I’ll explain.”

Richard nodded and set the briefcase down. The house smelled faintly of lemon oil and the lavender soap Grace used on the bannisters. A perfect stage for an ordinary evening—only nothing felt ordinary.

When the compress was secured, Grace folded the cloth carefully, like closing a book. “Would you like to tell your dad, Oliver? Or shall I?”