Matt said, "It wasn’t like that."
His voice had gone low and fast. He had sat forward in the recliner, the footrest still up, which made him look trapped there, folded at the waist, the lights sliding off his knees onto the floor in a green tangle.
Renée raised her eyes to him. She found that she was perfectly calm. It was the calm of the floor at four in the morning when the monitor started to drop and everyone moved at once.
"Then how was it?" she said.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out of it. And into that silence, helpfully, the way a child fills every silence, Ivy spoke again. She was turning the silver heel in her hand, admiring how the light slid along its edge, and she said it the way she said everything, matter-of-fact, eager to be accurate, proud of knowing.
"She came more than once."
Renée turned to her daughter. The bracelet had slipped down over Ivy's knuckles, and Ivy pushed it back up with the heel of the shoe.
Renée heard her own voice from far away, still soft, still steady, a voice she did not entirely recognize.
"How many times?"
* * *
Ivy held up one hand, the one without the bracelet, and counted with great seriousness, folding down her fingers one at a time with her thumb.