She leaned in, whispered something that made him flinch, and stepped back. Then she swung the bat — not at my father, but against the sharp edge of the granite countertop, denting the weapon.

Then she turned the bat on her own right shoulder and hit herself hard enough to bruise.

She dropped it, collapsed to the floor, and began screaming.

The angle was wide enough to catch the hallway.

Rodney stepped into frame. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, calmly watching his wife fake an injury to frame his own father, who sat confused and terrified in the chair behind her.

My grip tightened on the edge of the metal desk until my knuckles went white.