Perfectly Fair

Chapter 3: The Version They Chose

Cal called me through the cellar door.

"I'm here," he said, his voice muffled by the wood. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"I called the county line. They're sending someone to check on you."

My knees weakened. I leaned against the wall.

"Did you see what happened?"

"I saw Grace slap you. I saw you hit her. I'm not pretending I didn't."

"I'm not asking you to."

"I'm telling the truth. That's all I can do."

The bolt scraped back a moment later. Dad opened the door, and Cal stood at the other end of the corridor in his white kitchen jacket. His expression changed when he saw my face.

"Did you call them?" Dad asked.

"Yeah," Cal said.

"Why?"

"Because she told me you locked her in."

"She was out of control."

"I was standing in the pantry," Cal said. "I saw the whole thing."

Dad's mouth tightened. He moved aside, leaving a path between us.

"Go upstairs," he told me. "We'll deal with the rest in the morning."

I looked at the open door. The cellar had felt smaller with the bolt in place. The corridor seemed just as narrow now.

I stepped out without answering.

The inn was full of the leftover noises of an evening winding down. Someone laughed in the dining room. Glasses clinked. The guests had no idea that I had been locked in the cellar beneath their table linens and wine.

My mother waited in the office. She had changed out of her black dress and had wiped away her lipstick. Her eyes went straight to my cheek.

"You've upset everyone," she said.

"I didn't slap Grace."

"You punched her."

"Yes."

"Do you know what the doctor said? Her nose is fractured."

"I'm sorry I broke it."

Mom exhaled as if she had been waiting for those exact words. "Then tell the police that you attacked her."

"I'm going to tell them what happened."

Her face tightened. "That's what I mean. Don't turn this into a courtroom. Grace was upset. She acted badly. You know how hard she's been working."

I had worked beside Grace for three years. I knew how many late nights she had done. I also knew how many of my late nights had disappeared from the schedule when the winter benefit brochure went to print.

"She hit me," I said. "I hit her back. Dad locked me in the cellar. All three things happened."

"Your father was trying to keep the guests from seeing a scene."

"He could have asked me to leave."

"You were shouting."

"I wasn't."

Mom glanced toward the hallway. "Do you want the entire staff talking about this for the next month?"

"They saw it."

"Then let them forget."

The county deputy arrived twenty minutes later. I gave my account in the office with my parents and Cal present. The deputy asked if I wanted to make a formal complaint. I glanced at Mom, who had folded her hands in her lap, and at Dad, who stood by the filing cabinet.

"Yes," I said.

Mom looked down.

The deputy wrote everything in a small notebook, including the cellar door and the bolt. He took photographs of my cheek. Dad said the cellar had been a misunderstanding. Cal described the message I had sent and what he had seen.

I didn't ask the deputy to arrest anyone. I didn't ask him to decide which of us had been more wrong. I wanted the night recorded without my parents sanding the sharp edges off it.

When he left, Grace still hadn't come home from the hospital.

Dad told me I couldn't stay at the inn. He said it was better if I went to my apartment for a few days.

I packed my work clothes into a canvas bag. Before I left, Mom handed me my coat.

"You could still make this easier," she said.

"I don't know what that means anymore."

She looked at me, then at the bruise forming along my cheekbone. "It means don't punish your sister for one mistake."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you need a police report?"

"Because she made one mistake, I made another, and you made a choice."

Mom's lips parted, but she didn't answer.

I stepped outside into the cold. Cal waited by the service entrance.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To my apartment."

"You shouldn't be alone."

"I won't be alone. I'll be angry."

He almost smiled. "That sounds like you."

I took the ride he offered. As the Bell House disappeared behind us, I watched the lit windows until the road turned and the inn was gone.

I had wanted my family to tell the truth because I thought truth would bring us back together.

Now I only wanted to know what I would lose if I told it anyway.