From Clara's position on the bed, propped against the headboard with one hand still protective over her stomach, she had a clear view of her mother and aunt standing frozen in the doorway — two women who had spent Clara's entire life presenting a unified, composed front to the world, now looking at David with an expression Clara had never once seen on either of their faces. Fear. Not concern. Not disapproval. Genuine, unguarded fear. Eleanor's breathing had gone shallow and rapid, her hand still pressed to her mouth, her eyes fixed on the claw marks now clearly visible on David's forearm as though they confirmed something she had spent years hoping wasn't true. Margaret stood half a step behind her, one hand braced against the doorframe, saying nothing at all. "Mom," Clara said slowly, looking between her husband's trembling, wounded arm and her mother's stricken face, "what does he mean, hiding from us?" Eleanor didn't answer. She simply stared at David with an expression that had stopped being about tonight and had become, instead, about something much older.