“Sophia!” My voice trembled, cracking under the weight of my horror.

My daughter flinched violently. She pressed herself harder against the wall, covering her head with her arms. She didn’t recognize my voice. She only recognized the threat of an adult.

“Sophia… it’s Mama.” I moved slowly, dropping to my knees. I approached her like one would a wounded, cornered animal. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

When I reached out to touch her, she winced, bracing for a blow. That small, instinctive reaction shattered whatever remained of my composure. My daughter was afraid of my touch.

“Sophia, look at me. It’s Mama.”

Slowly, she lowered her arms. Her one good eye tried to focus. Recognition sparked through the fog of trauma.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby. It’s Mama. I’m here.”

Her face crumpled. “Mama!” The wail that tore from her throat was pure agony. I gathered her into my arms. She was so light. Too light. She clung to my neck, burying her face in my shoulder, sobbing my name over and over as if it were a prayer.

“There’s another one here,” an officer called out from the adjacent room.

Detective Sarah Chen emerged, supporting a woman who could barely walk. Amy.

My sister was a mirror of my daughter’s pain. Her face was swollen, her lip cut, her left arm cradled against her chest in a makeshift sling. Blood had seeped through her sleeve. She looked at me, her eyes swimming with tears and guilt.