She didn’t stop scrubbing.
“I’m almost clean,” she whispered. “Please don’t be upset. I’m almost done.”
Cold dread wrapped around my spine.
I grabbed the rag.
She fought me.
Not with strength—but terror.
Pure, desperate terror.
I pried it from her hands and held her wrists gently.
“I am not upset with you.”
Behind me, a voice cut in.
“Mr. Carter, this is not what it looks like.”
I didn’t turn.
“Mom. Towel. Now. Chloe—blanket.”
For the first time in my life, my mother obeyed instantly.
But Margaret Wells didn’t move.
Eliza finally looked at me.
Relief… and fear.
Together.
“Did she force you?” I asked softly.
Before Eliza could answer—
“The girl is emotional,” Margaret said smoothly. “Final trimester hysteria.”
I stood.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
“You were calming her,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“By calling her disgusting?”
