At home he carried Paige inside, settled her in the bassinet, then came back for Wendy and helped her out of the car as if every movement mattered, because it did. He guided her to bed, arranged pillows behind her shoulders and under her knees, brought ice water with a straw, pain medication, crackers, then sat on the mattress edge and looked at her for a long moment as if checking for fractures that could not be seen on skin.
“I need to ask you something,” he said quietly. “Did she put hands on you before today?”
Wendy stared at the blanket. “When I was a kid, yes. Hair. Arms. Never enough to leave anything she couldn’t explain.”
Mitchell closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them again, whatever remained of hesitation was gone. “I’m calling the police.”
Some old reflex made Wendy say, “Maybe we should just—”
“No,” he said, not harshly, but with total certainty. “No. Not this.”
The report was taken that afternoon.