I looked at the counter. Two grocery bags sat there, still tied shut. The frozen stuff inside had started to leak, a small puddle of melted ice and condensation forming on the granite. She hadn’t even unpacked them.

I didn’t say anything else. I just walked past her, my boots feeling too loud on the floorboards. I went to the spare room.

The door wasn’t locked. I pushed it open slowly, expecting a fight, but there was only the smell of stale air and that aftershave. Derek was passed out on the pull-out couch, one arm hanging limp off the edge. He was snoring softly, mouth slightly open. He looked exactly the same as he did when we were kids, crashing on our couch after a night of drinking. I felt a surge of cold fury that made my vision blur. Rachel was standing in the doorway behind me, watching, her face completely blank. She didn’t try to stop me. She didn’t say a word.

I backed out and went back to the kitchen. I felt like I was moving through deep water. I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the exhaustion carved into the lines around her mouth. “How did you get the bruises?” I asked again.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She just stared at the refrigerator. The humming of the compressor was the only thing in the room. I felt sick. I realized then that she wasn’t just hiding him. She was protecting him, or maybe she was terrified of what he’d do if she spoke.

I picked up my bag. I couldn’t stay in that house for another minute. “I’m going to the VFW,” I said. “Call me when you’re ready to tell the truth.”

She stood there, frozen. I walked out the front door and left Derek’s truck sitting in the driveway like a taunt. I drove to the VFW and sat in the dark, drinking coffee that tasted like burnt plastic. I waited for the phone to ring, but the silence was worse than the sound of the rain starting to tap on the roof.

The sun started to bleed over the horizon, gray and weak. At 6 a.m., I heard the heavy, rhythmic thumping of someone knocking on the exterior door. I opened it and saw Rachel. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. The T-shirt was gone, replaced by a thin tank top that left her arms exposed. The bruises were worse in the morning light, dark, ugly clouds staining her skin.

I didn’t open the screen door. I wanted to keep that barrier between us. “Tell me what happened,” I said. My voice sounded hollow to my own ears.

She stood there, shivering in the cold damp air. She didn’t look at me. She looked past me, toward the empty cots in the hall. “He said if I told anyone, you’d never believe me.”