Then she reaches down, snatches the dishtowel from the oven handle, and throws it at you. It lands across your shoulder and Oliver’s knees.
“Clean it,” she snaps. “And keep that brat quiet.”
You want to say he is not a brat. He is your brother. He is the last piece of your mother left breathing in this house. But experience has taught you that defending Oliver only paints a bigger target on both of you. So you nod, blinking back tears, and start wiping water with one hand while holding him tight with the other.
Caroline watches for a moment.
Then, because cruelty is rarely satisfied with obedience alone, she adds, “If my guests see blood on the floor, you’ll wish a broken glass was the worst thing that happened to you today.”
The guests.
You had forgotten. She has some sort of luncheon this afternoon, another event for women with diamond bracelets and soft voices who praise the house, taste the canapés, and talk about charity in rooms where actual suffering is only permitted if it is framed tastefully. Caroline likes these parties because they let her perform being adored.
And you, when possible, are hidden before they arrive.
She leaves the kitchen in a cloud of expensive perfume and sharp impatience. You wait until her footsteps fade before letting yourself take one full breath. Then you press the towel against your cut and lower your face to Oliver’s.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, though it is not. “I’ve got you.”
