Perfectly Fair

Chapter 2: The Bell House Rules

I counted the steps to the cellar door because counting gave my anger somewhere to go.

There were twelve.

I counted them again, then pressed my ear to the wood. The party had resumed. I recognized the muted rise of applause, the brief burst of laughter, the clink of glassware. My sister's blood had been wiped off the floor. The guests had been given dessert. The Bell House had swallowed the scene and kept serving.

My phone was in the pocket of my skirt. I took it out and found one bar of service. A text from Cal appeared at the top of the screen.

Cal: Your cheek is swelling. Are you okay?

I typed, Are you still outside the cellar?

Before I could send it, the signal vanished. I tried the call button anyway. The screen showed the emergency number, then a spinning icon. No connection.

I wasn't sure whether the cellar's stone walls were blocking the signal or whether the old building was simply built to keep people in. The thought made my stomach tighten.

My parents had never locked me in a room before. They had used time-outs when I was young, then silent treatment when I got older. Grace had never needed either. When she threw a glass against the pantry wall at seventeen, Mom had taken her for a drive so she could "get the adrenaline out." When I broke a lamp at fourteen, Dad made me write a letter to the family about taking responsibility.

I had written the letter. I still remembered the careful cursive.

My phone vibrated. A message slipped through.

Mom: Your sister is at Harborline Medical. Stay put. We will talk when she's home.

I stared at the words until the screen dimmed.

Not one question about my face. Not one about my hand.

I sat on a crate of bottled cider and tried to open the cellar window. It was a narrow hopper window set near the ceiling. I could reach the latch by standing on a wine case, but it opened only a few inches. Cold air brushed my knuckles.

I sent a text to Cal while I had a signal.

Me: Dad locked me in the cellar. I'm not okay. Can you call the police?

The message showed as delivered.

I waited. The inn creaked around me. Somewhere above, a door opened and closed. A pipe shuddered behind the wall.

At last, a bolt slid back.

The door opened a foot. Dad stood in the gap, his face set.

"Give me your phone."

"No."

His eyes dropped to my hand. "You sent something."

"I asked Cal to call the police."

"Don't be ridiculous. Nobody was hurt except Grace."

"You locked me in here."

"I asked you to cool off."

"You bolted the door."

Dad stepped into the cellar and held out his hand. "Give me the phone, Leah."

I moved it behind my back. "No."

His jaw flexed. For a second, I thought he might take it. Then he lowered his hand.

"Your mother is upset. Your sister's nose is broken. There are guests upstairs. Do you understand what you've done to this family?"

I glanced at the door behind him. "I understand what I did to Grace."

"And you think that makes what happened to you fair?"

The question landed so precisely that I almost laughed.

"I think both things can be wrong."

Dad looked over his shoulder. The hallway was empty. He leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"Your sister's the face of this inn. You know the kind of damage a scene like that can do. You have two choices. You can go upstairs, apologize, and stop making it worse, or you can make this a public fight that tears the whole place apart."

I was still holding my phone behind my back. I could feel its edges against my palm.

"You already made it a public fight," I said. "She slapped me in front of the staff."

"She was angry."

"So was I."

"That doesn't give you the right to break her nose."

"No. It doesn't."

The answer seemed to surprise him. He stopped for a moment with one hand on the door.

I thought admitting my part would open a door between us. Instead, he said, "Then you understand why you're staying here until you're ready to do the right thing."

He stepped out.

The bolt slid into place again.

I looked down at my phone. The message to Cal still showed delivered, but no reply had arrived.

For the first time that night, I stopped trying to make my parents agree with me.

I started thinking about what I could prove.