Page 68 of The Narrow

“I said you must have fallen last night. You can decide how much to tell them yourself.”

“Thank you.”

She grunts and puts her phone away, then sits back in the chair with her arms crossed. It’s a slow day in the ER, but there’s a wheezing kid and a guy with chest pain, so I guess we’ll probably be here a little while.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly.

I look at her without comprehension.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t a good enough friend for you to feel like you could tell me what things were like.”

“It hasn’t always been like this,” I say.

“But it’s always been bad, hasn’t it?” she asks. “I should have noticed. You were the only one who never wanted the summer to start. You were always so glad when breaks were over and you could come back. And you never invited any of us to your place.”

“I couldn’t,” I say. “Luke doesn’t like having people around he doesn’t know. It makes him worse.”

“Violent?” she asks.

“No,” I say immediately, defensively. Then my shoulders slump. “Not most of the time. He has episodes, and sometimes things get scary, but he’s never hurt anyone too badly.”Except me. Except this time.

“What about your parents? Haven’t they done anything?” Veronica asks.

“They’ve doneeverything. Therapy, medication, tough love, unconditional love, hypnotic regression, essential oils, you name it.”

“What about for you? What have they done to make sure you’re okay?” Veronica asks.

“Atwood,” I say simply.

Veronica lets out a huff. “So he’s a monster, and you’re the one that gets sent away.”

“He’s not a monster. And what were they supposed to do? Give up on him?” I ask.

“Yeah. Maybe they should have. Before you got your arm broken,” Veronica says fiercely.

Sometimes I think the same thing. My parents had a choice to make. They didn’t choose me. I know it wasn’t their intent. They thought this was the way to keep both their children. Instead, they lost us both.

“I’m never going back there,” I say. I haven’t been able to bring myself to think it before. I don’t have to go back. I’m going to be eighteen before Christmas. They aren’t even paying my tuition anymore. They can’t make me.

“No, you aren’t. You’re coming home with me,” Veronica says. “You’re right. I can’t fix everything, but I can fixthatmuch.” She reaches out and takes my hand, clasping it tight.

“You’re not angry with me?” I ask.

She bares her teeth in a feral smile. “Of course I’m angry with you. I’m furious. Sisters get mad at each other.”

I’m not going to cry, I remind myself.

I cling to her hand, and she doesn’t let go until they call my name.

—

The nurse who checks me over asks gentle questions. The doctor sends Veronica out of the room and asks blunt ones. I figure they know I’m lying when I say that I fell, that the bruise on my back and the crack to my skull are from rocks, that the handprint on my arm is a result of Veronica trying to catch me as I fell. Both of them try to convince me to make a report, to have something on file if I decide to go to the police. I tell them I don’t need to. What I mean is that it wouldn’t make a difference.

Several hours later, I’m back in the passenger seat with a diagnosis of mild concussion and a splint on my fractured arm, as well as an appointment for a follow-up. Veronica takes care of updating Zoya and Ruth, then drives us straight back to Abigail House. By the time we get through the entry procedures, Del is at the bottom of the stairs, anxious and relieved to see us.

“It’s fine. No worse than the first time around,” I tell her. “And I got this stylish new accessory.” I indicate the splint. “Now, if it’s okay with the two of you, I’d really like a nap.”

“We need to talk first,” Veronica says, standing with her arms crossed.

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