“Lily,” Marcus said, his voice soft but strained, “did you hit your head today? At school? At recess?”
She shook her head immediately. “No. I didn’t get hurt.”
The certainty in her voice sent a chill up my spine.
Marcus and I exchanged a look, filled with unspoken fear. Kids forget things. They misunderstand. But the shape of the bruise—the precision of it—didn’t feel accidental.
I took a slow breath, managing a smile—a smile parents use when they’re hiding panic. “Sweetheart, has anyone touched your head recently? Maybe someone helped you with your hair? Or in class?”
Again, a quick, innocent “no.”
Marcus swallowed. “Then how did this happen?”
Before Lily could answer, there came three slow, deliberate knocks from downstairs.
Marcus froze. So did I.
Lily’s eyes widened—as if she recognized the sound.
The silence in the house became suffocating.
The knocks came again. Steady. Polite. Wrong.
Lily stepped closer to me, clutching my sleeve. I whispered, “Stay behind me,” as Marcus made his way toward the stairs.
It was nearly 8:30 on a Tuesday. We weren’t expecting anyone. And Lily’s reaction—too quick, too knowing—made my heart race.
Through the frosted glass of the front door, we saw a tall, lean silhouette dressed like someone in uniform. Marcus hesitated, then cracked the door open.
A man in a delivery vest stood on the porch, holding a clipboard.
“Package for… Lillian Harper?” he asked.
