The smell—usually a promise that nothing bad could ever happen—made my stomach churn. I couldn’t look at it without wanting to break the bowl against the tile.
I ground my teeth so hard it sounded like gravel.
Through the window above the sink, I could see Knox, Harlow, and Ransom on the porch, framed by the light from the bug-zapper and the faint gleam of the security lamps out by the barn.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, each with a rifle balanced in their arms, posture loose but eyes sharp, as if they were expecting the woods themselves to get up and march on the house.
Knox paced the length of the porch, boots echoing off the old boards, while Harlow just rocked on his heels, slow and silent, staring into the dark as if he could will any threat to reveal itself. Ransom leaned against a post, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, fingers drumming on the stock of his rifle like he was keeping time for a firing squad.
I should have been out there with them, but instead I was here, inventorying the damage.
The images kept replaying: Levi’s face, wild with panic, blood spattered across the front of his shirt; the way his body had crumpled when the suit hit him; the blank shock in his eyes when he realized it wasn’t just a threat, it was real this time, it was happening.
My mind cycled through the details, unable to let go. The way the split lip had bloomed instantly, fat and purple, a bead of blood swelling at the corner like a single tear. The way his arms had hung, slack and defeated, as if even his bones had given up.
The urge to kill something—someone—coiled in my gut, hot and animal. I caught myself gripping the handle of the knife block, fingers white, the blade halfway out before I registered what I was doing. I forced it back in, slow, then shook my hand out like it was a cramp.
I wanted to hunt them down. I wanted to feel their windpipes collapse under my hands, to watch the light go out of their eyes, to make them understand what it was to suffer for a mistake.
I wanted to find Gloria and drag her by the hair through every street in this town, let everyone see what happened to people who touched what was mine. I wanted blood.
Instead, I watched the soup simmer.
Behind me, the house creaked and shifted. The wind off the creek rattled the windows, and somewhere in the distance, a fox screamed, the sound shrill and human enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up.
I looked down at my hands. The tremor was worse now. My left thumb tapped a staccato rhythm against my palm, like a telegraph operator losing his mind.
I tried to steady it by gripping the edge of the sink, but the metal was slick with condensation. My wedding ring—two weeksold, still pristine—glinted in the harsh light, an anchor in a storm.
I focused on the list. Get Levi out of those blood-soaked clothes. Disinfect the cuts. Make sure nothing was broken that couldn’t be set. Get him to eat something, even if it meant spoon-feeding him like a child. Make sure he slept. Make sure he knew he was safe.
I had to do all of it or the rage would get loose and burn down the world.
I heard the door creak open, and my pulse spiked. I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Ransom’s voice, deadpan and sharp as a paper cut. “Or you planning on actually feeding him?”
I kept my eyes on the window. “He’s not hungry.”
“Not the point,” said Ransom. “You gotta act normal. For him. For Ma. For everyone.”
I didn’t answer.
He stepped into the kitchen, rifle slung over his shoulder, the reek of smoke following him like a dog. He nodded at the soup, then at my hands, then at the window. “They’re not coming back tonight. Floyd’s got the main road locked down. Knox says Harlow could take out a moose from here to the water tower if he had to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “They tried once. They’ll try again.”
Ransom let that sit. He picked up a bowl from the drying rack, then filled it with soup. He set it on the counter, shoved a spoon in, and looked at me. “Levi needs you.”
I exhaled, tried to shake the anger off like water, but it clung to every inch of me. I wiped my hands on a towel, then picked up the bowl.
Ransom watched, his gaze flicking to my knuckles, where the skin was split and bruised from the alley brawl. “You should clean that,” he said.
I ignored him.
In the bedroom, I found Levi propped against a nest of pillows, eyes glazed and unfocused. The bruises on his face had deepened, the cut on his lip crusted black. There was blood on the sheets, a rusty Rorschach that made me want to peel the skin from my own bones.
He looked up as I entered, and for a second the old fear was there, sharp and bright. Then he saw the soup, and his mouth twisted into something like a smile.
