Standing in front of him was Vanessa —Michael’s wife of less than a year— holding a steaming iron just inches from the child’s skin.
Michael did not react immediately.
First, he saw.
Faint scars. Fresh burns. Red marks superimposed on older ones. They weren’t random. They weren’t accidental. The surface of the iron was spotless: there was no sign that it had touched clothing.
Skin only.
Then he spoke, in a low, controlled voice, but laden with something dangerous.
“What are you doing?”
Vanessa dropped the iron. It fell to the ground with a crash.
For a split second, she seemed to panic. Then her face shifted to a practiced calm.
“Michael… you’re early. This isn’t what it looks like. Liam’s been acting up. He exaggerates things, you know that, especially since…”
