Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
I hadn’t set foot inside the old house for seven years. The carpet was still the color of dried mustard, stained in the exact same places by the exact same spills that had outlived every dog, girlfriend, and family holiday. I stood in the entryway, shoulders pressed to the drywall, inhaling the stale scent of Lysol and mildew, and waited.
My fingers felt damp against the wood paneling. I’d memorized every squeaky board, every place her slippers scuffed the finish. Outside, the sun hung low and ruddy behind a flat expanse of stratus, leaking dull orange through the window beside the door. Her car crunched into the gravel. I tracked her movements with a detached efficiency: the pop and whine of the garage door, her grunting effort as she hoisted the grocery bags from the trunk, the expectant chirp of the alarm fob as she shuffled to the stoop.
I eased into my new role, a living shadow of vengeance. My heartbeat never broke its rhythm as I pressed myself behind the front door. The key rattled in the deadbolt. I exhaled through my nose and shifted my weight, ready.
The door swung open and closed. Rage burned as I stared at Mom’s brown hair coiled in a haphazard bun, purse strap carving a red line into the crook of her elbow, both arms loaded with Aldi bags. She walked through the living room with an obliviousness that bordered on art. Completely unaware of my presence, or of her impending doom.
A single running step put me full-force into her back. The groceries clattered to the floor, cans rolling haphazardly as she hit the wall. She yelped, more confusion than fear at first, and craned her head back, searching for the shape of her attacker. I covered her mouth with one hand and leaned my weight against her, pinning her to the wall.
She thrashed in my grip, but she was small, fragile the way only people who have never needed to fight can be. My palm fit neatly over her mouth, my arm a tourniquet around her torso. I leaned my chin against her shoulder, my lips against her ear.
“Shhh,” I whispered, and even I was surprised by the steadiness of my voice. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Mom went rigid. Through my fingers, I felt the shape of her lips; she was saying my name. I twisted one arm behind her back and turned her in the direction I wanted to go, her socked feet scrabbling for traction, and steered her through the living room to the scene of my nightly shaming, the dining room.