Katy sobbed behind me. “N-n-no, sir,” she stuttered, then whimpered.

I hated him at that moment. More than ever. Just for making my sister scared, making her cry.

“Well, one of you has to pay for it,” he said. His words slurred, and I knew he didn’t mean pay for it in money. “Which one of ya’s it gonna be?”

I pushed off the floor, blocking my sister from his view. “Me.”

“Figured you’d say that,” he replied, and he wiped his bearded jaw with his hand. “Always acting like some fucking goddamn hero, huh, Kane?” His eyes dropped to the floor, scanning the broken NFL glass. Kneeling, he picked up the bottom. It had remained intact; the sides now jagged and sharp.

My insides froze, and like all the other times, I shoved the fear to the back of my throat as I watched him rise.

“Take off your shirt, boy,” he ordered. “Then turn around and grab that chair.”

I glared at him, and I knew he could see the hate there. He was bigger than me, since I was only eight, and he knew it. But I did it. Did what he asked. Yanked my shirt over my head, threw it on the floor. Turned around. Grabbed the back of the chair, my knuckles turning white from my grip. Fury and fear boiled inside of me. I could feel it like a rolling pot of water under my skin.

My sister sobbed, and then my head was snatched back as he grabbed a fistful of my hair. His voice brushed my ear.

“You make one sound and you’ll get an extra letter.” He yanked my head. “So far you have six to look forward to. Every time you fuck up, you get another letter. You hear me, hero? You get this game now, smartass?”

I nodded, and when my eyes found my sister, I mouthed to her, be quiet.

My breath quickened; he’d not done this before. Fear stuffed inside my throat, my lungs and I hated that even more than the pain about to happen. Fastening my eyes on my sister’s, I concentrated. Breathed.

Waited.

And just before the first swipe of that glass bottom dug into my back, I watched my sister cover her mouth with both of her hands and scream silently. I felt the first letter as he carved it into my back. Curved it around. S.

My head pounded, but I kept my eyes on my sister. Then I saw nothing but red.

When the car turned into the black iron gates and onto the long drive, my stomach started to go numb inside. Trees overhung the single lane, and it wound and wound through a pecan grove until I’d lost sight of the road behind me. The driver hadn’t said a word to me, and I hadn’t said one to him, either. He drove and drove and drove. I waited.

Finally, a flash of white, and then appeared the hugest house I’d ever seen. It had a double porch—one on top, one on bottom, and when the car pulled around the circle drive and stopped, I glanced up through my window. An older woman stood on that upper porch, arms folded over her chest. She wore a fancy looking black dress, one that reached the floor, and I recognized her from the funeral.

My grandmother. My mother’s mother, Corinne Belle.

I’d never met her before the funeral.

With her back stiff and straight my grandmother turned and disappeared through the veranda’s double doors.

My car door opened, and the driver held it for me as I climbed out. I had no suitcase; only my backpack, and he handed that to me.

“This way, miss,” he said, and I followed him up a sweeping set of brick steps.

Just as my foot touched the first step, the tall doors opened and my grandmother stood there. She looked down at me then, and I looked up at her, and wordlessly she inspected me. She did that for so long I began to squirm, shift from foot to foot. Blue, icy eyes studied me hard.

“Stop fidgeting, Harper, and come this way,” she finally said, and turned on her heel. Her voice wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t exactly hateful, either. But it was cold and as sharp as the noise her heels made across the wood floor.

I followed her through the cavernous old house, filled with old stuff and vases and smelling like lemons, up a wide staircase to the second floor, and down a long, long hallway. Not once did my grandmother turn to see if I followed; I guess she knew I would. Halfway down the hall she stopped, opened a door on the right, and turned, hands folded in front of her, waiting on me. At the opened door I stood still.

“This is your room,” she said. “Go inside.”

Hesitantly, I did as she asked, and her clicking heels trailed behind me. I didn’t know what to do, really. Or where to go. So I walked to the bed and stopped. Laid out on the bedspread were clothes: underwear, socks with lace trim and a pair of shiny black shoes, and a dress the color of very ripe plums. Also, a large white towel and washcloth. I glanced up at my grandmother.

“Hand me your bag, child,” she said, and I slid it off my shoulder and did so. With her finger and thumb, she pinched the zipper, just barely, as if it were covered in germs, and opened my backpack. There wasn’t anything in it, really—just what few clothes I had, a pair of old sandals, and a picture of Mama and Daddy. It was an old picture—back…before. It was the only one I had. Corinne Belle then gave me a stern look.

“You’ll discard the items you’re wearing, all of them, and place them in here,” she said sharply. “Then you’ll wrap the towel about you and you’ll follow me to the bathroom.”

I hesitated; I didn’t like taking my clothes off in front of her. She might be my grandmother and all, but she was a stranger to me.

“Stop pondering, child, and for God’s sake stop staring at me as if you’re brainless and do as I say at once. The faster you discard, the faster you can wrap that towel around you.”