My daughter lay face down on the bed, sedated, her blond hair damp with sweat, her fingers twitching faintly against the sheet. The back of her hospital gown had been cut open. At first, I thought the dark streaks across her skin were bruises.
Then it hit me.
They weren’t bruises.
They were words.
A message had been carved into her back—shallow, deliberate cuts, still fresh enough for blood to bead along the edges. Not random. Not reckless. Intentional. Controlled. Personal.
I stepped closer, my legs suddenly unsteady.
The letters stretched from one shoulder blade to the other:
HE LIED TO YOU TOO.
For a moment, everything went silent. No monitors. No voices. No breathing.
Then I noticed something clenched beneath Emily’s trembling hand—a torn, blood-soaked strip of fabric from a man’s dress shirt.
