Chapter 2 - The Sound of Snapping Bones
The world narrowed to a pinprick of pure, incandescent rage.
Wren’s face had gone chalk-white, her lips bitten raw as she tried to swallow her own sobs. Her right hand, the hand that danced across piano keys with such effortless grace, was hideously misshapen. Her index and middle fingers were swollen twice their normal size, canted at an unnatural angle where the bone had clearly fractured beneath the heavy iron gate.
Brock didn't look remorseful. He looked annoyed, as if a gnat had dared to buzz around his face.
"She tripped," Brock yelled over the rising chaos, his voice dropping into that arrogant register that drove me insane. "She was running by the deep end, and she lost her footing. It's not my fault she's clumsy."
From the patio, my mother gasped, dropping her glass of iced tea. Marlene rushed forward, her face etched not with concern for her niece, but with instant, fierce defensiveness for her son.
"What happened?" Marlene shrieked, her heels clicking rapidly on the tiles. "Brock, baby, are you okay? Did she run into you?"
"I told her to watch out," Brock lied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a cold, mocking glint when he looked down at my daughter. "She just slammed her hand right into the gate."
Delia was already there, dropping to her knees with a choked cry. She gathered Wren into her arms, sobbing softly as she tried to avoid touching the mutilated hand. Delia looked up at me, her eyes wild with a mixture of terror and heartbreak.
"Arthur," she whispered, her voice cracking. "We need an ambulance. Now."
I didn't answer right away. I stepped past Marlene, past my mother, who was fluttering her hands and muttering about accidents, and walked straight toward Trevor, who was strolling out of the kitchen with a fresh beer in hand.
"Trevor," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Your son just broke my daughter's hand."
Trevor took a sip, his gaze drifting lazily to Wren on the ground. "Come on, Artie. Kids play. Brock was just showing her how to clear the gate properly. You know how hockey players are. High energy. You're making a mountain out of a molehill."
That was the exact moment the final thread holding my sanity snapped.
"A mountain?" I repeated, taking a step closer. "My daughter can never play the piano again. Her fingers are crushed because your feral son wanted to teach her a lesson."
Marlene inserted herself between us, her face flushed with righteous indignation. "How dare you speak to my husband like that! You’ve always been jealous of Brock because he’s an athlete and Wren is a timid little ghost! Accidents happen at pool parties! If she had any coordination, she wouldn't have fallen!"
"She didn't fall," I said, staring straight into Marlene’s eyes. "Brock slammed that iron gate on her hand on purpose. I saw the way he cornered her."
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"You were behind the shed!" Brock shouted, stepping up beside his mother, puffed up like a bantam rooster. "You didn't see anything, old man! Prove it! Prove I did it!"
He grinned. It was a wicked, knowing grin—the smile of a bully who believed he was completely untouchable.
