Chapter 2
The cold fury that flooded my veins pushed out every ounce of fear. I scooped Ava into my arms, pressing her face into my shoulder so she wouldn't have to look at the monsters who called themselves her family. My sister, Brenda, Mason’s mother, was staring at her fingernails, murmuring something about kids needing to watch their step.
“You’re sick,” I whispered, looking directly at my father. “All of you.”
“Watch your mouth, Claire,” my father warned, stepping forward, his chest puffed out like a bantam rooster ready for a fight he’d never lose in his own mind. “In this house, we don’t coddle weakness. Mason could have been hurt if she knocked that grill over.”
“She didn’t touch the grill!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “Mason knocked her down!”
“That’s enough,” my mother interjected, stepping between us with a practiced, peacemaker’s smile that didn't reach her dead eyes. “Claire, take the girl inside and run some cool water over it. It’s just a little red. You’re making a scene in front of the neighbors.”
I looked around. Across the low chain-link fence, Mrs. Gable was standing by her hydrangea bushes, holding a garden hose, staring wide-eyed at our patio. Other neighbors had stopped their yard work. The music from the garage suddenly sounded grotesque and mocking.
Without another word, I turned on my heel and carried Ava toward the back screen door. Every step felt like walking through wet cement. My mind raced through options, emergencies, and the absolute betrayal burning in my chest. Growing up, I had survived under my father’s iron fist, convincing myself that his cruelty was just ‘tough love’ meant to protect us. But seeing it directed at my own innocent child shattered every delusion I had ever carried.
I pushed into the kitchen, the cool air conditioning hitting my tear-streaked face. I set Ava gently down on the kitchen island and immediately turned on the faucet, adjusting the water until it was cool and steady.
“Hold your hand right here, baby,” I choked out, my own hands trembling violently as I grabbed a clean dish towel to wipe the sweat and dirt from her face. “Mommy’s right here. I’m going to fix this.”
Ava was sobbing quietly now, her small body shuddering with every breath. The skin on the back of her hand was blistering into a cruel, angry welt shaped like the grip of the metal tongs. The sight made my stomach heave.
“Does it hurt very bad, sweetie?” I asked, stroking her hair.
“It burns, Mommy,” she whispered. “Grandpa was mad at me. Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I said, and the absolute certainty in my voice surprised even me. “No, baby. You did nothing wrong. Grandpa is a bad man, and we are leaving right now.”
I reached for my phone on the counter, my fingers slipping against the screen. I needed to call an ambulance. I needed to call the police. The realization hit me like a physical blow: my father was a pillar of this small town. Everyone knew Grant Holloway. The local police chief went bowling with him every Thursday night. If I called from this house, or even from the local clinic, they would try to sweep it under the rug. They would call it a domestic family matter, an old-school disciplinary slip-up.
I needed evidence, I needed outside help, and I needed to get Ava to a real hospital far away from this zip code.
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Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open. My brother, Thomas, walked in, holding a fresh pack of paper plates. He looked at us, his expression a mask of weary annoyance.
“Come on, Claire,” Thomas said, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t ruin Dad’s birthday barbecue over a minor accident. He’s getting old. You know how he gets when things don't go his way.”
