Monday Night
Bree-Anna still has her mother’s business card. She keeps it flat against her sweaty palm, but with her fingers closed over it so he can’t see it. He sits in the bedroom with her, on the floor, his back pressed on the door. He’s collected up all the jewellery and has it spread out on the carpet between his legs.
‘See these.’ He holds up a pair of square golden things in a box. They’re too big and ugly to wear as earrings. ‘These are mine. The old fart who does my trust account sent me them for Christmas one year. He sends something every year. You know what they are?’
Bree-Anna presses her teeth on the thumb and sucks harder. She rests her head on the wall and is reminded of the tender lump on the back of her head. She lifts her head away. Afternoon sunlight streams through
