Chapter 1 - THE GLASS
The electrical cord struck my back before I heard it move.
A white flash filled my eyes.
Then pain opened across my shoulders so sharply that my knees hit the bedroom floor.
Grant Holloway stood behind me with the cord from his desk lamp wrapped around one fist. The plug swung near his polished shoe.
“Look what you did.”
Pieces of his favorite crystal tumbler glittered beneath the window.
I had knocked it from the desk deliberately.
He did not know that.
All he knew was that his promotion dinner had started downstairs, six guests were seated around our dining table, and the expensive glass he liked to hold while talking about success had shattered before his boss arrived upstairs to admire the family.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The apology came automatically.
It did not stop the second blow.
The cord cut across the first mark. Heat spread beneath my shirt.
My mother stood in the doorway.
Diane Holloway wore a green dress and the pearl earrings Grant had given her for their anniversary. She held a white dish towel in both hands.
“Grant,” she said softly.
He turned toward her.
For one hopeful second, I thought she had finally said his name the way a person says stop.
Instead, she looked at the clock.
“Dinner is starting.”
Grant’s breathing slowed.
“Then she should have thought of that.”
My little sister Sophie coughed from the bedroom across the hall.
A thin, wheezing cough.
Then another.
The sound was why I had broken the glass.
Ten minutes earlier, I had come upstairs looking for Sophie’s prescribed respiratory medicine. She was supposed to take it before dinner and again if the coughing worsened.
I found Grant standing beside his desk.
The medicine bottle lay inside his tumbler beneath a folded cocktail napkin.
He had smiled when he saw me looking.
“She doesn’t need it yet.”
“She said her chest hurts.”
“She always says that when people come over.”
I reached for the glass.
He blocked me.
“One quiet night, Mara. Your mother and I are asking for one quiet night.”
“It’s her medicine.”
“And I said after dessert.”
I struck the tumbler with my elbow.
It fell.
The bottle rolled beneath the desk.
The glass shattered.
Grant grabbed the cord.
Now blood had begun to soak through the back of my shirt.
My mother approached at last.
She knelt beside me and pressed the dish towel against the wounds.
Not gently.
She pushed hard enough to make me gasp.
“Hold this there,” she whispered.
“Help Sophie.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
Her eyes flicked toward Grant.
“Just apologize properly.”
“I did.”
“Again.”
Downstairs, someone laughed.
Silverware touched plates.
The dining room smelled of roasted meat, coffee, and the cinnamon candles my mother lit when important people visited.
Grant unwound the cord from his fist.
“Clean the glass.”
He walked out.
My mother kept the towel against my back while he went downstairs.
“Don’t get blood on the carpet,” she whispered.
I looked beneath the desk.
The medicine bottle rested beside a shard of crystal.
My hand shook as I reached for it.
Mother saw.
“Mara, no.”
I grabbed the bottle and crawled past her.
Each movement pulled my shirt against broken skin.
She caught my ankle.
I kicked free.
The hallway seemed longer than our entire street.
At the stairs, I could not stand.
I went down on my hands and knees.
Voices stopped as I reached the dining room.
Grant sat at the head of the table. Beside his plate lay a navy folder embossed with the Northstar Systems logo.
PROMOTION RECOMMENDATION.
His boss, Richard Bennett, had just raised his fork.
I pushed the medicine bottle across the white tablecloth.
It rolled between serving dishes and struck Richard’s water glass.
Grant came behind me, still breathing hard.
My mother followed with the bloody towel.
“She’s upset,” Grant said. “She broke something and threw a tantrum.”
Richard looked at the bottle.
Then at me.
“Whose medicine is this?”
“My sister’s.”
Mother reached for it.
Richard placed two fingers on the cap and kept it where it was.
Upstairs, Sophie coughed.
Every adult heard.
“When was she supposed to take this?” Richard asked.
“She already did,” Grant said.
“No.”
My voice barely came out.
“She asked me to find it. I saw him put it inside his glass.”
Grant grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me upright.
Pain tore through me.
“He said she had to stay upstairs because he didn’t want her ruining his dinner.”
Mother told me to stop talking.
Richard pushed his chair away from the table.
“Let go of her, Grant.”
Grant did not move.
Richard repeated it.
“Now.”
Grant released my shirt.
My knees folded.
Richard looked toward Mother.
“Why is an injured child crawling through your dining room while another child is upstairs without medication?”
Mother stared at the promotion folder.
May you like
“We’re having a difficult evening.”
That was the answer she chose.
