Zane dug out his key, as his father decreed the house stayed locked whether or not anyone was home. The second the door cracked open, he heard it.

The snarl dropped from Britt’s face. Her eyes went huge, filled with fear and tears. She slapped her hands over her ears.

“Go upstairs,” Zane told her. “Go straight up to your room. Stay there.”

“He’s hurting her again. He’s hurting her.”

Instead of running to her room, Britt ran inside, ran back toward the great room, stood, hands still over her ears. “Stop!” She screamed it. “Stop, stop, stop, stop.”

Zane saw blood smeared on the floor where his mother tried to crawl away. Her sweater was torn, one of her shoes missing.

“Go to your rooms!” Graham shouted it as he hauled Eliza up by her hair. “This is none of your business.”

Britt just kept screaming, screaming, even when Zane tried to pull her back.

He saw his father’s hate-filled eyes track over, latch on to his sister. And a new fear flashed hot inside him, burned something away.

He didn’t think, didn’t know what he intended to do. He shoved his sister back, stood between her and his father, a skinny kid who’d yet to grow into his feet. And with that flash of heat, he charged.

“Get away from her, you son of a bitch!”

He rammed straight into Graham. Surprise more than the power of the hit knocked Graham back a step. “Get the hell away.”

Zane never saw it coming. He was fourteen, and the only fights he’d ever participated in consisted of a little pushy-shovey and insults. He’d felt his father’s fist—a blow to the gut, sometimes the kidneys.

Where it didn’t show.

This time the fists struck his face, and something behind his eyes exploded, blurred his vision. He felt two more before he dropped, the wild pain of them rising over the fear, the anger. His world went gray, and through the gray, lights sizzled and flashed.

With the taste of blood in his mouth, his sister’s screams banging in his head, he passed out.

The next he knew, he realized his father had slung him over his shoulder, carrying him up the stairs. His ears rang, but he could hear Britt crying, hear his mother telling her to stop.

His father didn’t lay him down on the bed, but shrugged him off his shoulder so Zane bounced on the mattress. Every inch of his body cried out in fresh pain.

“Disrespect me again, I’ll do more than break your nose, blacken your eye. You’re nothing, do you understand me? You’re nothing until I say you are. Everything you have, including the breath in your body, is because of me.”

He leaned close as he spoke, spoke in that smooth, calm tone. Zane saw two of him, couldn’t even manage to nod. The shaking started, the teeth-chattering cold of shock.

“You will not leave this room until I permit it. You will speak to no one. You will tell no one the private business of this family or the punishment you forced me to levy today will seem like a picnic. No one would believe you. You’re nothing. I’m everything. I could kill you in your sleep, and no one would notice. Remember that the next time you think about trying to be a big man.”

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 generously 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.”