Chapter 4

Eight o'clock at night. I wasn't home. My phone didn't ring.

At ten, my mother sent me a text.

"Where are you? Out this late? Aren't you afraid you'll run into the same kind of danger as last time?"

I texted back.

"I'm at the hospital."

Half an hour later she asked,

"Are you back yet?"

I fell asleep.

No more messages.

No call, either.

By the time I made it home, three days had passed.

Bonnie had her period. She was curled up on the couch looking wan and drained, and my mother was in the kitchen making her warm honey water.

My father was in the study, burning the midnight oil to gather more evidence for her, ready for the trial three days out.

"You can't let yourself get cold during your period. Drink plenty of honey water, eat nourishing food. That way your womb won't run cold, and later when you're married, it'll be easier to get pregnant."

My mother carried the honey water over and put it in Bonnie's hands, then tucked a hot water bottle against her lower belly, fussing over her the whole time.

I stood in the doorway, watching.

Thinking about my own first period, when someone had once looked after me with that same care.

She was my adoptive mother.

She'd taken more than half of Eugene Whitney's beatings for me.

Then she ran.

She didn't take me with her.

I don't blame her.

She said she'd come back for me once she could.

But it had been six years, and she'd never come back once.

The trial came, and my body still hadn't healed.

I insisted on being there anyway.

The hearing ran four hours, and I sat bolt upright the whole time.

I wanted to use the weapon of the law to put every guilty person behind bars.

So I worked with my lawyer and laid out all the evidence.

But from the defense table, my father, sharp-tongued and unhurried, struck every piece of it down.

The man who should have held an umbrella over me kept stabbing at me with the weapon he knew best.

"In summary, my client did have a duty to render aid to the plaintiff, but no crime was committed, and he should not be sentenced."

At the defense table, Bonnie curled her lips at me and flashed a victorious smile.

The judge told me to give my closing statement.

I stood up and spoke slowly.

"It was the defense's party who called me and sent me to Eugene Whitney's rented apartment."

My father explained, "My client was only calling out for help when she was in danger."

I said again, "But when I got there, she was standing there perfectly fine, talking with Eugene Whitney."

My father sighed. "By then the danger had already passed."

I felt myself sinking. "When Eugene Whitney was beating me, she had every chance to get out and call for help."

My father looked into my eyes, his expression full of pity.

"She didn't dare move. If she'd moved, Eugene Whitney would have dropped you at once and gone after her. Then she'd have been the victim."

Wonderful.

Not a single gap in his rebuttal.

The judge's gavel came down. Eugene Whitney got ten years. Bonnie walked free.

I sank back down onto the plaintiff's seat.

I walked out through the courthouse doors.

Passing by me, Bonnie said in a low voice,

"Gertie, now you finally believe I'm innocent, don't you?"

"Mom says you didn't lose your little life!"

"Dad says you stirred up the animal in Eugene Whitney!"

"Bryan says you just have bad luck!"

"I think they're all right. What do you think?"

A taunt.

A bare, naked taunt.

My mother said, "All right, it's all in the past. From now on you two should get along like sisters again."

My father said, "Gertie, the court would never hand down a wrong verdict. It was you who didn't know what was good for you."

And right then.

Eighteen Rolls-Royces pulled up in a single line outside the courthouse.

Bodyguards in matching uniforms stepped out all at once.

One of them opened the door of the lead car and held an umbrella over a wealthy woman dressed head to toe in designer labels.

She stepped out and took off her sunglasses, revealing the face of my adoptive mother, gone for six years.