The twins led him through the neighborhood, crying as they ran, their small legs struggling to keep pace with a terrified adult. Ethan relayed information to the dispatcher like a machine.
“Yes—violent assault… possible head trauma… two children present… exact address… please hurry…”
The white fence appeared at the end of the block like something out of a nightmare. The front door hung crooked, shattered inward.
Ethan stopped short.
The air felt wrong.
“You stay here,” he ordered gently, stepping in front of them. “Do not come inside until I tell you. Okay?”
“But our mom—”
“I’m going to her. I promise. Don’t move.”
He entered.
The living room looked like a war zone. Furniture overturned. Glass everywhere. Picture frames shattered on the floor—one family photo completely destroyed.
And then he saw her.
Natalie lay near the couch, unmoving. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, her face swollen and bruised beyond recognition. She was wearing a nice dress. One heel lay several feet away, as if the violence had torn her out of her own evening.
Ethan dropped to his knees.
His hands found her neck automatically, muscle memory kicking in before fear could.