It was the sudden, deliberate stillness near the bedroom doorway that drew Jacob's attention next. He turned sharply, his expression contorting with disbelief as he registered his mother, Diane, standing rigidly in the entrance, dressed elegantly in a champagne-colored gown, a handbag held with practiced, unbothered composure.
She said nothing at first, her expression carrying none of the alarm or concern that should have accompanied witnessing her son's horrified reaction to his wife's injuries. She simply stood, watching, her posture rigid and unapologetic.
"Mother," Jacob said, his voice shaking now with a fury he'd rarely directed at her in his entire adult life, "what did you do?"