And the fountain, of all things, was where I finally stopped — because there is a specific point past which even the most well-trained scapegoat cannot go, and my father, that night, finally pushed me past mine.

Chapter 6 — Patricia

A soft knock came at the restroom door.

“Jessi?” It was my mother, Patricia.

She came in carefully, holding a cream shawl, her silver gown immaculate, but her face had lost its usual practiced composure.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, and the word sounded strange in her mouth, unfamiliar, unpracticed.

“What happened out there wasn’t meant to—”

“Mom,” I said.