There is a way of thinking about a thing like that which lets you keep it in a lining for six years, and I would not understand what it was for another seven, and it would take a twelve-year-old to explain it to me.

I dialed a number I hadn’t called in six years.

My older brother picked up on the second ring. “Heather?” His voice was tense.

“Grant,” I whispered, holding my bleeding child close. “I’m officially done pretending to be poor, submissive, and grateful.”

A heavy pause. “Who touched you?” Grant asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“The Vaughn family makes me sick,” I said. “I want their financial empire gone.”