He went out, closed the door.

Zane drifted again. It was easier to drift than to deal with the pain, to deal with the words his father had spoken that had fallen like more fists.

When he surfaced again, the light had changed. Not dark, but getting there.

He couldn’t breathe through his nose. It felt clogged like he had a terrible cold. The sort of cold that made his head hammer with pain, had his eyes throbbing.

His gut hurt something terrible.

When he tried to sit up, the room spun, and he feared throwing up.

When he heard the lock click, he started to shake again. He prepared to beg, plead, grovel, anything that kept those fists from pounding on him again.

His mother came in, flipping the light as she did. The light exploded more pain, so he shut his eyes.

“Your father says you’re to clean yourself up, then use this ice bag on your face.”

Her voice, cool, matter-of-fact, hurt almost as much as his father’s.

“Mom—”

“Your father says to keep your head elevated. You may leave your bed only to use your bathroom. As you see, your father has removed your computer, your PlayStation, your television, items he’s gener ously given you. You will see and speak to no one except your father or me. You will not participate in Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.”

“But—”

“You have the flu.”

He searched her face for some sign of pity, gratitude. Feeling. “I was trying to stop him from hurting you. I thought he might hurt Britt. I thought—”

“I didn’t ask for or need your help.” Her voice, clipped, cold, made his chest ache. “What’s between me and your father is between me and your father. You have the next two days to consider your place in this family, and to earn back any privileges.”

She turned toward the door. “Do as you’re told.”

When she went out, left him alone, he made himself sit up—had to close his eyes against the spinning and just breathe. On shaky legs, he stood, stumbled into the bathroom, vomited, nearly passed out again.

When he managed to gain his feet, he stared at his face in the mirror over the sink.

It didn’t look like his face, he thought, oddly detached. The mouth swollen, bottom lip split. God, the nose like a red balloon. Both eyes black, one swollen half-shut. Dried blood everywhere.

He lifted a hand, touched his fingers to his nose, had pain blasting. Because he was afraid to take a shower—still dizzy—he used a washcloth to try to clean off some of the blood. He had to grit his teeth, had to hang on to the sink with one hand to stay upright, but he feared not doing what he’d been told more than the pain.

He cried, and wasn’t ashamed. Nobody could see anyway. Nobody would care.

He inched his way back to bed, breathed out when he eased down to take off his shoes, his jeans. Every minute or two he had to stop, catch his breath again, wait for the dizziness to pass.

In his boxers and sweatshirt, he crawled into bed, took the ice bag his mother had left, and laid it as lightly as he could on his nose.

It hurt too much, just too much, so he switched to his eye. And that brought a little relief.

He lay there, full dark now, planning, planning. He’d run away. As soon as he could, he’d stuff his backpack with some clothes. He didn’t have much money because his father banked all of it. But he had a little he’d hidden in a pair of socks. His saving-for-video-games money.

He could hitchhike—and that thought brought a thrill. Maybe to New York. He’d get away from this house where everything looked so clean, where ugly, ugly secrets hid like his video game money.

He’d get a job. He could get a job. No more school, he thought as he drifted again. That was something.

He woke again, heard the lock again, and pretended to sleep. But it wasn’t his father’s steps, or his mother’s. He opened his eyes as Britt shined a little pink flashlight in his face.

“Don’t.”

“Shh,” she warned him. “I can’t turn the light on in case they wake up and see.” She sat on the side of the bed, stroked a hand over his arm. “I brought you a PB&J. I couldn’t get lasagna because they’d know if any was missing from the dish. You need to eat.”

“Stomach’s not so good, Britt.”

“Just a little. Try a little.”

“You need to go. If they catch you in here—”

“They’re asleep. I made sure. I’m staying with you. I’m going to stay with you until you can eat something. I’m so sorry, Zane.”

“Don’t cry.”

“You’re crying.”

He let the tears roll. He just didn’t have the strength to stop them.

Sniffling at her own tears, swiping at them, Britt reached down to stroke his arm. “I brought milk, too. They won’t notice if a glass of milk is gone. I cleaned everything up, and when you’re done, I’ll wash the glass.”

They spoke in whispers—they were used to it—but now her voice hitched.

“He hit you so hard, Zane. He hit you and hit you, and when you were on the ground, he kicked you in the stomach. I thought you were dead.”

She laid her head on his chest, shoulders shaking. He stroked her hair.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. He sort of squeezed my arms and shook me, yelled at me to shut up. So I did. I was afraid not to.”

“That’s good. You did the right thing.”

“You did.” Her whisper thickened with tears. “You tried to do the right thing. She didn’t try to stop him from hurting you. She didn’t say anything. And when he stopped, he told her to clean up the blood on the floor. There was glass broken in the kitchen, to clean it up, to clean herself up and have dinner on the table by six.”

She sat up, held out half the sandwich she’d neatly cut in two. In that moment he loved her so much it hurt his heart.

He took it, tried a bite, and found it didn’t threaten to come up again.

“We have to tell Emily and Grams and Pop you’re sick. You got the flu, and you’re contagious. You have to rest, and Dad’s taking care of you. He won’t let them come up to see you. Then we have to tell people at the resort you fell off your bike. He said all this at dinner. I had to eat or he’d get mad again. Then I threw up when I went upstairs.”

He took another bite, reached for her hand in the dark. “I know how that feels.”

“When we get back, we have to say you had a skiing accident. Fell. Dad took care of you.”

“Yeah.” The single word rang bitter, bitter. “He took care of me.”

“He’ll hurt you again if we don’t. Maybe worse. I don’t want him to hurt you again, Zane. You were trying to stop him from hitting Mom. You were protecting me, too. You thought he was going to hit me. So did I.”

He felt her shift, saw in the faint light of the flashlight she’d set on the bed that she’d turned to stare toward the window. “One day I guess he will.”

“No, no, he won’t.” Inside the pain, fury rose. “You won’t give him any reason to. And I won’t let him.”

“He doesn’t need a reason. You don’t have to be a grown-up to understand that.” Though her tone sounded adult, fresh tears leaked. “I think they don’t love us. He couldn’t love us and hurt us, make us lie. And she couldn’t love us and let it keep happening. I think they don’t love us.”

He knew they didn’t—had known for sure when his mother had come in, looked at him with nothing in her eyes. “We’ve got each other.”

While she sat with him, making sure he ate, he understood he couldn’t run away, couldn’t run and leave Britt. He had to stay. He had to get stronger. He had to get strong enough to fight back.

Not to protect his mother, but his sister.

CHAPTER TWO

On Christmas Eve, Emily Walker still had half a dozen items left on her to-do list. She always made lists, always worked up a schedule. And invariably every item on every list in her history of lists took longer than she’d thought it would.

Every freaking time.

The other thing about lists? Other items tended to pop up onto it, adding yet more time she hadn’t anticipated.

Such as today. In addition to giving the house one last going-over, making her daddy’s favorite stuffed pork chops and scalloped potatoes for Christmas Eve dinner, giving herself a much-needed home facial, driving out to Asheville to pick her parents up from the airport, she’d added in a quick trip to the market to pick up a stewing chicken.

Poor Zane had the flu, so she’d also added making that stewing chicken in a nice batch of chicken soup. And that added on delivering the soup to her sister’s house across the lake.

Which added on the chore of being sweet and nice to Eliza.

To make it worse, she had to be sweet and nice to Eliza after Eliza decreed that Christmas dinner had to be at the old house.

Oh, not to worry, said Eliza, Emily thought while she threw on fresh clothes. She had to skip the facial, needed or not. No, not to worry, because Eliza had already contacted the caterer and switched the venue.

Venue, for God’s sake!

And who in holy hell hired on a caterer for a family holiday dinner?