I came around the corner at the foot of the stairs and walked straight into the kitchen.

Emma was lying on her side on the floor, right at the edge of the braided kitchen rug.

She was curled up in a tight ball, holding the left side of her head with both hands.

Two feet from her lay the heavy black cast iron skillet my mother always used to fry eggs.

Vanessa stood by the toaster.

Her arms were crossed tight over her chest.

She was staring at the empty wall right above the refrigerator.