But his brother gave him a black eye, and his parents didn’t even fucking care. I had to dosomething. Didn’t I?
When my doorbell rings, I practically shriek with fear. It’s the last sound I’m expecting, and I whip my head around and stare for a few long minutes at the front door.
Whoever’s there is tall enough to be seen through the stained glass window.
I swallow. I wish, suddenly, that Theo was here with me. Maybe Oliver was right to want to go to him after all.
The doorbell rings again, followed by a heavy, urgent pounding.
“I know you're in there!” A woman’s voice. Oliver’s mom, I’m sure of it. What was her name again? Britney? No, Blaire. “I think we need to talk!”
I consider slipping out the back, diving into the lake, and swimming to the peninsula. But that would be cowardly, and Oliver deserves better.
So I answer the door.
Blaire Jenkins is waiting for me on the patio, that fake-looking smile plastered across her face. Her eyes, though, are cold and hard as steel.
“May I come in?” she asks.
“I’d rather you not.” I step out, easing the door shut behind me. I don’t know why I say that. Maybe I think if she tries something, my screams will carry enough for Theo to hear.
And then what? Anything he would do about it would only make the situation significantly worse.
Blaire scoffs a little and tugs down on her shirt. “Fine, we can sweat it out on your porch.” A long pause. “I assume you’re the one who called that social worker on me?”
Blood pounds in my ears. Blaire doesn’t break eye contact with me, her gaze cold and unbothered. I swallow.
“She didn’t find anything,” Blaire says with a sickening little smile.
“Oliver had ablack eye,” I spit out.
Blaire tilts her head, her shimmery blonde hair puddling in the corner of her shoulder. “He fell,” she says coolly. “On the edge of the dock.”
Heat swells beneath my skin. And panic, too. I think of Oliver’s weary insistence that only Theo can help.
“Liar,” I whisper.
“Prove it,” she says.
“You’ve done this before,” I hiss. “Haven’t you?”
“Done what?” Blaire leans in close, and a real cruelty marches across her features. “Shut out some meddling bitch who thinks she knows what’s best for my son?”
I gape at her, and she smiles victoriously. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she says. “Attempting to raise a child who can’t even benormal. So keep your fucking nose out of my family’s business.”
I suck in a deep breath. “Oliver doesn’t deserve this.” It’s not even close to what I want to say, but it’s all that comes out.
Blaire rolls her eyes. “Oliver deserves far worse than what I’ve done, believe me. And if you call CPS on me again, you’ll learnexactlywhat my husband and I do to people who try to interfere in our business.” Her eyes narrow and then, to my horror, drop down to my neck. I’m still wearing the bow collar shirt, but I can’t stop myself from jerking my hand to my throat. Blaire laughs.
“What were you getting up to over here?” she says mockingly. “Who do you think they’re gonna believe? I’m a devoted housewife. Everyone in Pinella knows that. I’ve served on the PTA since we moved here. And you—” She scoffs, flips her hand in my direction. “You live alone and never leave your house. How are you affording lakeside property again?”
“I inherited this house,” I snap, but Blaire just laughs.
“A good cover story for a whore,” she says. “Is that what you’re doing? Whoring yourself out? What will the next social worker think about that, huh? A whore wanting to spend time with a ten-year-old boy withspecial needs.”
She says “special needs” in a tone dripping with mockery, and for a second, all I feel is a hot, blinding anger.
“Better a whore than an abuser,” I snarl. “If you let anything happen to Oliver, I’ll?—”
