Chapter 2 - The Shift in the Woods
I closed my eyes again, convincing myself that exhaustion was playing tricks on my mind. Ethan was just getting some fresh air; he had always been a night owl, prone to pacing when his thoughts were heavy with logistics or work calculations. By morning, the sunlight was streaming through the canopy, painting mottled patterns across the nylon walls of the tent, and Ethan was sitting cross-legged near the cold ashes of the fire pit as if he hadn't moved an inch all night.
“Morning,” he said, his voice entirely steady, betraying no signs of fatigue. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” I murmured, crawling out of the tent and stretching my aching limbs. My gaze naturally fell on Ivy, who was still tucked inside her sleeping bag, shifting restlessly. “Is she still sleeping?”
“Let her rest,” Ethan replied, standing up and dusting off his jeans. “It was a big hike yesterday. The air out here takes a lot out of you.”
When Ivy finally emerged a half-hour later, rubbing her eyes and blinking against the morning glare, something immediately felt wrong. It wasn’t a loud, dramatic shift; it was a microscopic dissonance in her posture and expression. She walked with a stiff, guarded reluctance, keeping her arms pinned close to her torso.
“Sweetheart, are you hungry?” I asked, kneeling beside her.
She didn't answer immediately. Her lower lip trembled slightly, and when she tried to lift her left arm to push a strand of hair from her face, she winced, a sharp, suppressed gasp escaping her lips.
“Ivy?” I reached out, gently pulling back the sleeve of her light cotton jacket.
My breath caught in my throat. Circling her forearm were three distinct, perfectly circular bruises, dark purple and already swelling at the edges, flanked by fine, red linear marks that looked almost like tiny lacerations. They weren't scrapes from a branch or bruises from a fall; they looked precise, deliberate, as if a tight, cold clamp had been locked around her wrist during the night.
“What happened to your arm?” I demanded, looking up sharply at Ethan.
Ethan didn't flinch. He was standing a few feet away, holding a thermos of coffee, his expression smooth and unreadable. “She probably bumped against something yesterday during the hike. You know how clumsy kids can be when they're tired.”
“This isn't a bump, Ethan,” I said, my voice rising, the thin veneer of our peaceful retreat shattering completely. I grabbed Ivy’s other arm; her shoulders and upper arms bore faint, identical discoloration, as if she had been held down firmly.
I looked at Ethan, then down at Ivy, who stared back at me with wide, glassy eyes that seemed distant, as if she were trapped behind a thick pane of glass. “Ivy, did something happen last night?”
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She shook her head slowly, her voice barely a whisper. “I was sleeping, Mommy. My head just... it felt heavy.”
I looked over at Ethan, searching his face for panic, for guilt, for anything that resembled a father's horror at seeing his child injured. There was nothing. Just that calm, methodical gaze that I had mistaken for safety for eleven years.
