“I stayed over with a friend from school to work on a project.”
“Which friend?”
His voice sounds metallic, distant. “Sarah. From my music class.”
“Sarah.” He repeats the name like he’s testing it, rolling it around his mouth. “What’s her last name?”
“Morrison.”
Bryan’s fist slams onto the table, and I jump.
“Don’t.” His voice is strained. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”
My heart won’t slow down. I’ve seen Bryan frustrated, seen him tired from work, worn out by the burden of caring for me. But I’ve never seen him angry, never heard him angry except…
Except for the last phone call to my mother.Everything that happens from here on out is your fault.
The same fury that was in his voice then is in his expression now.
“I’m not—”
“Do you think I’m stupid, is that it?” The words are precise, each one landing like a blow. “I know you left the house on Friday with a boy. I want his name.”
I drop my eyes, hiding my guilty expression.
But Damien told me Bryan drove away before he came inside. It must be a bluff. “I don’t know what you’re talkingabout.” My voice wavers, betraying me. “I told you, I stayed with Sarah.”
“Stop lying.” The chair flies backward as he stands, legs scraping on the linoleum.
I flinch and something flickers across his face. Satisfaction? Regret? It’s gone too quickly to tell.
He circles the table, and I lean away from him, my fingers gripping the edge of my seat. When he stops beside me, there’s alcohol on his breath. Not heavy, but present.
Bryan never drinks. He’s always on call for the extra money.
“I know some boy took you.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “I know you left with him Friday night and didn’t come back until now. So, you’re going to tell me who he is.”
“No, I…”
His hand catches my chin, tilting my face upwards. Not rough, but firm enough I can’t pull away.
“This is your fault. I got this”—he gestures to his eye—“because a guy mistook me for some creep hunting young girls. I spent all weekend searching. Every bar in the city, the hospital, even the community hall.”
His grip tightens fractionally. The story about his injury fits, but his tone, his barely restrained anger? It’s like he doesn’t see or hear me.
“I must’ve called your mobile twenty times, and you were… what? Laughing at my messages while some guy kicked the living shit out of me?”
“No! I didn’t have my—”
“Then you waltz through the door like nothing’s happened, and you lie? After everything I’ve done for you? After I took you in when nobody else would?”
“I’m sorry you got hurt.” My voice drops down, soft as I can. Deferent. Bowing my head, shoulders hunched as I make myself smaller. “But I’m home now. I’m safe.”
“You’re a liar.” His voice cracks on the accusation. “A boy took you from your bed on Friday night. I saw him. And how did he even get in the house, Ophelia? Because the doors were locked and I sure as hell didn’t let him in.”
His face is an inch from mine now. The pupil in his injured eye is dilated despite the harsh light. There’s something feral in his expression, something I’ve never seen before and don’t want to see again.
“Tell me the truth.”
