Eleanor cried out as pain flared through her body, sharp and unforgiving. She clutched the bed to keep herself from falling.
“Do not touch me,” she pleaded. “Please.”
Vanessa released her with a look of irritation and turned away. “Get dressed,” she said. “I want the downstairs spotless before noon.”
Eleanor slowly placed her feet on the floor. The cold sent a shiver through her legs. She stood carefully, using the dresser for support, her body bent slightly forward as if trying to escape itself.
As she took her first step, a voice spoke from the doorway.
“Vanessa.”
The word landed with quiet authority.
Both women froze. Daniel Whitman stood in the doorway, his jacket still on, his expression unreadable but tense. He had returned early from a business trip, hoping to surprise his wife, hoping to spend a quiet morning with his mother. What he found instead did not fit the image he carried of his home.
His eyes moved from Vanessa to Eleanor, taking in her posture, the way her hand pressed against the dresser, the way her shoulders trembled.
“What is going on?” he asked.