Following the blade with my eyes, my mouth drops when I see he isn’t scribbling out the words. He’s writing more—a bigger and clearer message.
“No… No!” I run at him, pulling at his arm to try and stop the huge letters from forming a sentence, but he shrugs me off, and I fall to the floor. To the bloodstains.
A quick look back, and our eyes meet, tears flowing from mine. Something like regret shines in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop, capping his sentence with an exclamation mark.
Annabelle rubs my back as my sobbing rocks my body.
Done with his destruction, Ambrose tosses the knife at the wall, and it stays there, embedded in the plaster.
I stand on shaking legs and return to his words, barely able to read them, as I struggle through the blur of tears.
YOU AREN’T SELLING OUR HOUSE.
AND YOU CERTAINLY AREN’T MARRYING THAT CUNT!
Annabelle, with her hand still on my back, reads the message aloud, and I crumble. My knees weaken, taking me to the floor, and I slump where Dad took his last breath.
“He’s gonna be so mad. He’s gonna be so mad. I don’t know what to do. When he comes home?—”
Anger steps aside, fear ruling me once more.
“It’ll be fine. I can be here with you when he comes home.” Annabelle tries to soothe me.
“You have work tomorrow, and we don’t even know when he’s coming home.” I sob into my hands, muffling the sound.
“Maybe Ambrose will be here.”
That no longer feels like a good thing.
“I know you guys are mad at each other right now, but I don’t know why or where this all came from. You’ve been so close lately. Always there when you need each other.”
“Too close.”
I need to get away from this place, and my legs realize that before my brain.
“Go and take a shower or something and calm down. I’ll order you a boba. It’ll help calm your nerves.”
No, Annabelle, not even a boba will work today,I think to myself as I step back from Annabelle and Ambrose, from my parents standing behind Ambrose and his awful words. My feet move faster and faster until I make it to my room. I slam my door and run to grab my phone from the bed where I left it.
Still no messages.
I text my own, and hope I have time to fix the hallway before Shane shows up.
Dollancie:
Hey! Where are you?
But after another ten minutes, he still doesn’t answer.
CHAPTER 58
Ambrose—age thirteen
Avintage yellow radio plays a song with a bouncy beat from some new artist, and it’s as annoying as the hail beating at the window.
“Baby, your arm looks bad.” Mom thinks talking to me like I’m a toddler will help. “Can I take a look?”
She stands in the center of the kitchen, moving around from the refrigerator to the work surfaces. Dozens of baking supplies line the countertops around us.
