He glanced toward the door, then back at me. I’d never seen him look uncertain before. He was backing up, just a little. But I noticed.

“Say it again,” I said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He swallowed. “I slapped her.”

“No. Say what you said before.”

His eyes moved to Linda. She stood there with the pie knife in her hand, not doing anything. Then she put it down.

Derek shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”

I didn’t move. “You hit her.”

“She pushed me.”

“So you hit her.”

“It wasn’t like I punched her.”

I’ve heard men use that kind of sentence before. They make the harm smaller so they can live with it. I wanted to ask him what he thought the bruise looked like, but I didn’t. I said, “Don’t touch her again.”

He gave a short laugh. “You don’t even know what happened.”

“You just told me.”

“I was trying to get her to stop yelling.”

Linda stepped toward us. “He’s under a lot of pressure at work.”

I looked at her then. She had seen Emily’s face that morning. She’d seen it the night before, too. I could tell from the way she wouldn’t look at me. I still wanted her to say something that would make the last few minutes less ugly.

She didn’t.

I went to the back door and opened it. Emily was on the porch with one hand on her stomach, looking through the window over the sink. She turned when she heard me.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Do you want me to call the police?”

She looked back at the window. Derek was moving around in the kitchen. I could see him talking, but not hear him.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“That’s all right. You don’t have to decide this minute.”

I should have said more. I should have known the right thing to say. I didn’t. I asked if she wanted to come to my house, and she nodded.

I went back inside to get her purse and car keys. Derek was standing by the table now. Linda had moved her pie away from the edge.

“You’re taking her out of here over one slap?” Derek said.

I picked up Emily’s purse from the chair. “I’m taking her somewhere safe.”

“She’s my wife.”

“She’s my daughter.”

He came around the table. I put one hand up, not touching him. He stopped.

“Don’t make this worse,” I said.

I heard my own voice. It sounded steadier than I felt.

Derek looked past me, toward the open door. “Emily, tell him this is private.”

She was standing outside where I’d left her. Her face looked small through the doorway. She didn’t answer.

For a moment, I thought she might come back in and apologize to him. Not because she believed she was wrong. Because I’d watched her try to smooth things over after he got angry before. That was one of the things I’d missed. She was always the one making the room calm again.

This time, she said, “Get my coat.”

Derek’s mouth tightened. “You’re being dramatic.”

I went to the hall closet and got her coat. I had to pass him to do it. He stepped aside, and I hated that part of me noticed. I hated that a man who’d hit my daughter could still make me measure where I put my feet.

I carried her purse and coat outside. Emily’s hands were shaking while she put on the coat. The sleeve caught on her watch, and I helped her work it free. I didn’t ask how long she’d been afraid of him. I was afraid of the answer.

She sat in the passenger seat of my truck. I got in but didn’t start it.

“Did he do this last night?” I asked.

She looked down at her hands. “Yes.”

“Had he hit you before?”

A pause. Then, “Not like this.”

That answer sat between us. I could tell there was more, but I didn’t push. I’d spent the morning pushing when she was still trying to decide if she could say anything.

I started the truck. We drove to my house, a little over ten minutes away. She watched the road and didn’t speak. At a stop sign, she said, “I should’ve told you.”

I kept my eyes on the road. “You don’t owe me an explanation for not telling me.”

“I knew you’d hate him.”

“I already did.”

That got a tiny laugh from her. It didn’t last.

At my house, I made coffee neither of us wanted. She sat at the kitchen table with her coat still on. I put a clean dish towel under her cheek, then realized that was not the right thing to do and took it away.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“For not seeing it.”

She didn’t answer. I wanted her to tell me I wasn’t at fault. I wanted it so badly I almost asked. I didn’t. She was the one who’d been hit, and I wasn’t going to make her take care of my feelings on top of everything else.

I called my neighbor, who used to be a county deputy. I didn’t ask him to come over. I asked what Emily could do if she wanted to make a report.

“Call the sheriff’s office,” he said. “Tell them what happened. Get pictures of the bruises today, not next week.”

I wrote that down on the back of a grocery receipt. My hand was still oily from the garage, and it left a gray mark beside the number.

Emily saw the note. “You don’t have to do all that.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want him arrested.”

“Okay.”

“I just want him to leave me alone for a while.”

“Then we’ll start there.”

She looked at me as if she were checking for a catch. There wasn’t one. I still wanted the whole thing to end cleanly, but I knew better than to put that on her.

We took pictures in the afternoon. Emily did it herself with her phone. I sat on the edge of the bed and held the curtains open because the bathroom light made the bruises look different. She took one picture, checked it, then took another.

“I hate this,” she said.

“I know.”

“I hate that I have to prove it.”

I didn’t have a good answer. I had answers that sounded like things people say when they want the moment to pass. I kept them to myself.