“She screamed at us to run. To find you. We ran the whole way. We don’t know if she’s still breathing.”
The restaurant went silent.
Plates stopped clinking. Conversations vanished. It was as if someone had turned down the volume on the entire world.
Ethan dropped to their level, his heart slamming against his ribs.
“Slow down. Breathe. What’s your mom’s name?”
“Natalie Morgan,” whispered the girl with blood on her collar.
The name cut straight through him.
Natalie.
The woman he was supposed to meet tonight.
The one Marianne had described as strong, hardworking, an amazing mom.
The woman who was supposed to walk through that door—and instead was bleeding on her living room floor.
“Where do you live?” Ethan asked, already pulling out his phone, already dialing 911, his hands steady not from calm, but urgency.
“Three blocks that way,” the other twin pointed with a shaking arm. “Fresno Street. The house with the white fence. Please—please hurry.”
“I’m coming. Stay with me.”
He ran.
No one stopped him. Someone shouted something about the check. Ethan didn’t look back.
This wasn’t about dinner.
This was about a life.
The twins led him through the neighborhood, crying as they ran, their small legs struggling to keep pace with a terrified adult. Ethan relayed information to the dispatcher like a machine.
“Yes—violent assault… possible head trauma… two children present… exact address… please hurry…”
The white fence appeared at the end of the block like something out of a nightmare. The front door hung crooked, shattered inward.
Ethan stopped short.
The air felt wrong.
“You stay here,” he ordered gently, stepping in front of them. “Do not come inside until I tell you. Okay?”
“But our mom—”
“I’m going to her. I promise. Don’t move.”
He entered.
The living room looked like a war zone. Furniture overturned. Glass everywhere. Picture frames shattered on the floor—one family photo completely destroyed.
And then he saw her.
Natalie lay near the couch, unmoving. Her blonde hair was matted with blood, her face swollen and bruised beyond recognition. She was wearing a nice dress. One heel lay several feet away, as if the violence had torn her out of her own evening.
Ethan dropped to his knees.
His hands found her neck automatically, muscle memory kicking in before fear could.
“Natalie… can you hear me?” he whispered. “Come on… please…”
Nothing.
He adjusted his fingers.
Then he felt it.
Weak—but there.