She went still.
Not the exhausted still of a woman who has run out of energy. The sharp, sudden still of a woman who has just heard a specific word that her brain is running back through its filters to confirm it arrived correctly.
"What?"
Her voice came out raw. Scraped. The specific, wrecked register of a throat that had spent the last hour being comprehensively used and was not at full capacity.
"What did you just say."
He pulled back from her ear.
Looked at her face.
At the wet, the tears, the milk-stained dress fabric pushed aside, the complete, honest ruin of a woman who had been taken apart piece by piece in her own bedroom while her son slept in the next room.
He reached up.
Found the remaining tied wrist.
The buckle gave. The belt falling away.
Her arm came down. The specific, aching drop of a limb that has been held above its owner's head for a long time and is now making its opinions known about that.
He took her hand.
Guided it.
Down.
