Valerie’s hand stayed between her shoulder blades.
It was not a hard shove.
It was worse than that.
It was a measured pressure, gentle enough that anyone watching from too far away might have thought Valerie was helping her.
Straightening her dress.
Keeping her from leaning too far.
Playing the part she had spent a year perfecting.
But Lily knew.
Children do not understand death the way adults do, but they understand danger in the body before they can name it.
Her stomach dropped first.
Then her shoes scraped once against the balcony tile.
Then the world tipped.
The courtyard below blurred into gray stone, trimmed hedges, the black shine of a family SUV, and the dark square of the kitchen doorway.
A scream caught in her throat.
On the little shelf beside the balcony door sat Lily’s rag doll, the one her mother had sewn a blue ribbon onto before she died.
