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I need to book a big tent for the ceremony. Clear the nearby field for the reception. Spray for insects, establish trash management. Organize the caterer, schedule floral deliveries. Get the invitations out and harangue the guests for their RSVPs—and our cell reception here is terrible— when they fail to return them on time.

Some of the arrangements are easy enough to manage with my injury. The caterers, florists, the like. But clearing the land? Prepping the terrain for fifty-plus guests? It’s impossible. My thigh was just torn open, the stitches keeping it together still fresh.

I made the mistake of asking Emmy if this was necessary, and I was answered with another slap to my face. Her favorite MO.

She’s good at driving home a point.

So I’m out in the field, pulling weeds and shoveling animal shit. It’s hot as hell, and I’ve knotted my shirt to cool down a bit. I’ve been taking breaks every few minutes to check on my thigh. At this rate I’ll never finish on time.

I’m examining the injury, making sure the stitches are still secure, when Bill’s voice booms out from a dozen feet away.

Even now, weeks after he entered our lives, it still drives a chill down my spine.

“Working hard…or hardly working?”

I look up. “Sorry. Just checking on my injury.”

He creases his forehead. “Why don’t you come in? Emmy’s made some lemonade. You’re due for a break.”

I furrow my brow. “She did?”

“Yeah. She’s so thankful for all the work you’ve been doing.”

“Okay…”

That doesn’t sound like Emmy at all. Maybe before Dad died, but she’s been awful since then. I could give her my kidney and wouldn’t get so much as a thank you.

Maybe Bill’s having a good influence on her. Could be he isn’t such a bad guy. He’s the man Emmy chose to replace my father. Perhaps I’m holding him to impossible standards.

I get to my feet slowly and then amble next to Bill back to the house. Once we’re in, we walk to the kitchen.

My breath catches in my throat.

Emmy isn’t there. No lemonade in sight.

“Did… Did she bring it outside?” I ask.

Bill shakes his head and then locks the door to the kitchen.

“Bill?”

“I told Emmy to get out of the house for this.” He starts rolling up his sleeves.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve been watching you all day. You’ve been spending half the day tending to that damned leg of yours.” He looks to the calendar on the wall. “Wedding’s in a week. If you don’t speed up, your poor mother won’t get the wedding she deserves.”

“She’s not my⁠—”

Bill slaps me. Hard. Harder than Emmy ever did. I fall to the floor, right on top of my injury. White-hot pain sears through me.

“She’s done more for you than your real mother ever did. She’s kept a roof over your head, food in your belly. The least you can do is be grateful, you little whore.”

Whore?

Not brat, not snot. But whore.

He chose a sexually loaded insult. The kind a father figure should never use.