I look toward the stairs––the hard wooden stairs, with the dented banister––and I think of Payton. I think of my sweet girl growing up in this house. Being terrorized in this house.
A vision of her medical records flashes into my mind. The X-ray of her arm when she was 14. The accompanying statement by her parents, claiming she fell down the stairs.
Fell. I don’t think so.
I let my eyes close, settling into the darkness, allowing my true self to take over.
And when my eyes open, all I feel is rage.
My steps are measured when I circle around the front of the chair, brushing against Arthur’s extended feet.
Moving next to the recliner, I stop close enough to see the crumbs stuck in his scraggly beard.
He’s not as big as me, but he’s not a small man. A little soft with age and booze, bu
