“How long?” William asked. His voice sounded distant to him, as though someone else had asked the question through his mouth.
Isaac exhaled. “I can’t give you an exact timeline from one night. But months. At least. Possibly longer.”
The hallway lights blurred.
Months.
All at once William saw a thousand moments reassemble into a new and monstrous picture. The weekends Marsha had insisted Owen spend with Sue while William attended conferences or department retreats. The times Owen flinched when Marsha entered a room unexpectedly. The night terrors. The refusal to talk about Grandma’s house. The way he once wet himself after Marsha snapped, “You don’t deserve dinner acting like that,” and William had thought the child simply felt ashamed. The increasing silence. The clinging. The strange carefulness in him, like a child walking across ice.