Victoria came home early on Thursday with takeout bags and a look that meant she had been thinking about something the entire drive.

Elena was at the kitchen island with her laptop open, sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands, the lower bruises across her ribs aching in a dull, familiar line every time she shifted on the stool. Between her legs she still carried the load Marcus had left in her that morning—slow, thick, kept inside because the new rules allowed it as long as the evidence stayed hidden. She had logged it before Victoria’s car pulled into the driveway. The entry sat on her phone like a private...