"Sir, I can explain," Rachel's father said, both hands raising in an instinctive, placating gesture, his voice carrying the particular panic of someone realizing, belatedly, that whatever careful narrative he'd hoped to maintain was rapidly falling apart in front of him.
The police officer shifted slightly near the doorway, his expression carrying a discomfort that suggested he, too, understood the situation had shifted considerably now that Marcus had arrived and begun asking direct questions rather than simply accepting whatever version of events had been presented before his return.
Rachel's stepmother remained silent, her robe pulled tightly around herself, her expression carrying a guilt she made no visible effort to disguise.
Marcus rose slowly from his kneeling position beside Rachel, turning fully toward her father now, his earlier controlled composure giving way to something colder and more focused. "Explain what, exactly?" he said. "Explain why my pregnant wife has fresh scratches on her arm that she was trying to hide from me? Explain why there's a police officer standing in my bedroom instead of an ambulance, or handcuffs?"