Renee turned.
“Zoe.”
Her daughter began twisting her fingers.
“You said she was being dramatic.”
“Upstairs.”
“You said—”
“Zoe.”
The girl flinched.
My eyes moved toward Renee.
“Don't yell at her.”
“I am not yelling.”
“Then don't threaten her with your voice either.”
Renee laughed once.
“Threaten?”
“Yes.”
“You walk in here after being gone all day and suddenly you know what happened?”
“I know what I watched.”
“You watched ten minutes.”
“How long was she cleaning?”
Renee said nothing.
I looked at Nia.
“How long?”
She stared at the floor.
“Nia.”
“Since after school.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Three.”
I looked at wall clock.
5:12.
My stomach went cold.
“Two hours?”
Renee shook her head.
“She took breaks.”
Nia did not.
That told me enough.
I walked toward her.
She moved back slightly.
From me.
I stopped.
That hurt more than anything yet.
My daughter had never moved away from me when I approached.
“Nia.”
I kept my voice low.
“I’m not mad at you.”
Her chin trembled.
“Okay.”
“I’m going to take you upstairs.”
She looked toward Renee.
Not me.
Renee said:
“She’s trying to manipulate you.”
That was the exact moment whatever remained of my willingness to explain things peacefully disappeared.
Not my self-control.
That stayed.
But the instinct to protect Renee from consequences was gone.
I turned.
“Do not speak to her again right now.”
Renee stared.
“This is my house too.”
“Then stand in your house quietly.”
Her face hardened.
“Marcus.”
“Quietly.”
I lifted Nia only with permission.
“Can I carry you?”