Chapter 3 - The Weight of the Grip
Diane raises the heavy ash broom handle, angling the thick wooden butt toward Emily's shoulder.
Her elbows lock into place, her jaw tight, her grey eyes narrowed to slits.
"You heard my son," Diane sneers, her breath smelling of black coffee and menthol cigarettes.
"Say you're sorry for looking at my papers."
Emily pushes herself up onto her palms, her knuckles turning white as her elbows tremble under her weight.
A dark red mark bleeds through the fabric of her light blue shirt, right over her left ribs.
"It's my house, Diane," Emily whispers, her voice breaking into a rough cough.
"My name is on the mortgage."
Diane's grip tightens on the ash handle, her right arm pulling back six inches to strike.
Mark turns his head toward the wide glass patio doors, his thumb resuming its slow rhythm against his watch face.
"Just say it, Emily," he mutters to the window pane.
"We have dinner with the neighbors at six."
Chloe drops to the floor again, covering her ears with her hands, her yellow sweater pulling tight over her chest.
"The house is crying," Chloe screams at the baseboards.
May you like
"Stop making the floor cold!"
The ash handle twitches in the air, beginning its downward arc toward the woman on the floor.
