ThirteenTate slapped her ledger closed with such force the smack of the covers startled Bridget. After Kid left, Tate had resumed her bookkeeping with a smile playing on the edges of her lips, and Bridget had gone to the staircase where she dusted the iron balusters.
“No you don’t,” Tate yelled. She started across the room, an angry ear to the hallway where the tiny whisper of a door opening meant someone far less bold than Kid was trying to enter the back stairwell without being caught. “Get in here, June.”
A girl near Bridget’s age reached the entrance and stopped. Bridget’s breath caught. The girl’s battered face held deep bruising along the cheekbones, puffy eyes—one black and nearly swollen shut—a split lip.
Tate frowned and huffed and yanked a chair from one of the tables and slam
