At 47 seconds into the beating, Emily Rivas no longer knew if the pain was coming from her split lip or from the terror of feeling her baby boy shaking against her chest while her husband watched without lifting a finger.
The floor under her cheek was cold enough to make her teeth chatter.
It smelled like lemon cleaner, metal, and the faint sweetness of the vanilla candle she had burned upstairs in the nursery only an hour before.
Tommy was pressed so tightly against her chest that she could feel his little heartbeat jumping through his jacket.
He was 11 months old.
Emily was 8 months pregnant.
And in that terrible, polished foyer, those two facts were the only things her body cared about.
Not pride.
Not pain.
Not even fear.
Protect the baby in her arms.
Protect the baby inside her.
That was all.
Above her, the marble staircase curved like something from a house tour, bright and expensive and useless.
Michael Salvatierra stood on it with one hand on the banister, his dark dress shirt still perfect, his hair still neat, his face still calm.
He did not look shocked.
He did not look angry.
He looked inconvenienced.
“Michael,” Emily tried to say, but her mouth was already swelling and the word came out broken. “Please. Help me.”
He did not come down.
Jessica Tellez stood over her, breathing hard, her expensive beige coat open at the throat, one sleeve twisted from the force of what she had done.
Her heels clicked once against the floor as she shifted her weight.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Michael said.
The words landed colder than the marble.