Chapter Nine
“Nathan. Nathan!”
He was failing at putting together the glass vase that, until this afternoon, had held a bunch of decorative sticks—or “swords” as his sons had called them.
“Leave it, Nathan, you’re going to cut yourself.”
“Too late,” he slurred, showing her the dark-red blood dripping from his hand onto her polished wood floor.
“You know, you aren’t any better than your boys,” she scolded as she hauled him up onto his feet and guided him to a stool at the island. She examined his hand. He had a fairly deep cut from the glass in the fleshy part of his palm.
“Here.” She reached across the island, grabbing a clean towel. “Put pressure on that with this towel. I’ll be right back.”
Finding her medical kit under her bathroom sink, Lela took out a cotton ball, antiseptic, a
