“Don’t even,” he growled. He leaned back against the door, folding his arms over his chest. “You text me that and then shut off your phone? What are you? Twelve?”

I flushed. It was a bit immature. I picked at my shirt. “Adulting is hard.”

“Tough shit.” He pushed off from the door, stalking toward me.

I edged back, just a foot.

He lifted his hands, pausing mid-air, and I watched as a myriad of expressions flashed over his face. He fisted his hands, then unfisted them, then let out a harsh breath as he settled them on my shoulders.

His tone was gentle when he spoke. “You said he hit you once.”

I was numb.

The feeling was spreading fast, coming up from my feet to my legs, my thighs, my stomach. It flared up my sternum, my chest. Through my shoulders. Down my arms. My fingers. Up to my neck, rising, rising until I looked at him.

I knew a tear fell.

“Once, yes.”

“How bad was it?”

My voice was hoarse. “Does it matter? He wasn’t in his right mind.”

“It matters.” His hands tightened on my shoulders, his fingers curving into my skin. “Please tell me the truth.”

I looked away. I couldn’t see whatever I was going to see in his eyes as I remembered this. I wouldn’t be able to deal with it.

The words spilled, for the first time. “He beat the shit out of me.”

He dragged in his air.

“It was the only time, but I’d started noticing little things. He wasn’t in control of himself anymore.”

“What happened?”

God. Really? My throat wasn’t completely numb. It was hurting, squeezing, tightening.

“When I woke up, he was eating popcorn and laughing at Impractical Jokers. I got up, and he looked surprised. He didn’t remember hurting me.”

“Fucking hell.” Reese hissed as he ripped himself away from me. His hands balled into fists, pressed at his sides, and he turned his back to me. He faced the door, his shoulders tightening.

“He was tore up about it, and he never hit me again, but there were other things. Small things sometimes. Big things toward the end. He stole groceries from a drive-up lane. He thought they were ours, but he’d already put our groceries in the trunk. Another time, he left the oven on during the night.”

Reese’s head raised up. His shoulders bulged.

“His short-term memory was getting bad. He would forget things he’d done the day before. One time he forgot my name. Another time his own. Just for a moment—then he’d be back. He’d be normal again.”

“How long?”

He turned back, a rawness in his eyes.

“How long what?” I could only get a whisper out now.

“How long did you take care of him until you got help?”