Part 7: Fallout and Whispers
The next morning broke clear and bright, but the atmosphere in my apartment was tense. Ava woke up sore, her bandaged hand resting on a pillow, but her spirits lifted a little when Marcus made her favorite pancakes with smiley faces made of chocolate chips.
Around ten o'clock, my phone began to buzz incessantly.
It started with my mother, Denise. Then my brother, Mark. Then several extended family members I hadn't spoken to in years. I silenced the phone and turned it face down on the counter.
“Let them ring,” Marcus said, pouring himself a cup of black coffee. “They’re panicking because reality finally caught up with them. The police went to the house last night. Grant wasn't there—he’d holed up at his construction office downtown, trying to call every lawyer he knew. But the sheriff tracked him down and slapped the cuffs on him around midnight.”
A wave of complex emotions washed over me—relief, sorrow, vindication, and a strange, hollow grief for the family I wished I had instead of the one I was actually born into.
“My mother must be beside herself,” I whispered.
“Your mother is worried about her social standing,” Marcus corrected bluntly. “She called me three times this morning begging me to drop the charges 'for the sake of the family.' I told her if she called again, I’d have her slapped with an accessory charge for covering up the assault.”
I looked up at him, a faint, humorless smile touching my lips. “You didn't.”
“I did,” Marcus said deadpan. “And she hung up immediately.”
By Tuesday afternoon, the local news outlets had picked up the story. It turns out that a prominent local contractor assaulting his seven-year-old granddaughter with red-hot barbecue tongs makes for explosive headlines in a quiet county like ours. Reporters were camped outside my parents' house, and the mugshot of Grant Holloway—looking bewildered, disheveled, and stripped of his usual arrogance—was plastered across every local news site and social media feed.
The fallout was immediate and catastrophic for my family’s social standing. Contractors canceled contracts with my father’s business. Country club memberships were suspended. Neighbors who used to wave politely now pulled their blinds shut when my mother walked past.
On Wednesday, my mother finally showed up at my apartment building.
I watched from the living room window as she stepped out of her sedan, looking ten years older than she had on Sunday. Her hair was unbrushed, and her designer handbag was clutched in her hands like a shield.
May you like
Marcus stood beside me at the window. “Do you want me to answer the door?”
“No,” I said, taking a deep breath and straightening my shoulders. “I’ll handle it.”
