Page 3 of Close Your Eyes and Count to 10

“So you’re really not going to tell me who did it?” she asked as they took the winding, rural road back to the house. She chose the long way home so that they wouldn’t have to pass the house they used to live in on the way to the place they rented now in a very different part of town.If he’d noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“I think it does, yeah,” she said. “Because people should not be allowed to hurt you, Blakey.”

He turned those dark eyes on her, Miller’s eyes—wise, seeing, too old for his years. And now ringed with purple. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind, looked out the window into the golden late afternoon instead.

“Just drop it, Mom, okay?”

She tightened her grip on the wheel, saved her breath. Because she knew that her son was a locked box. There was no prying him open until he was ready, and that might be never.

He was out of the car before she even turned off the engine, disappearing through the front door as she stepped into the chill. The sound of the screen door slamming was as loud as a gunshot, causing her to startle. She glanced around at the trees that surrounded their house, the next place a few miles up the road.

A chill moved down her spine, the strange sense that she often had of being watched.

Paranoid. That’s what Violet would say.

She wished she could chalk it up to that.

* * *

“Why are you protecting them?” Violet was in Blake’s face. “It’s not going to make themlike you. You get that, right? It makes you theirdoormat.”

“Take it easy, Violet,” Adele said as she plated the savory beef stew from the Crock-Pot.

“You know I’m right,” her daughter countered, the seventeen-year-old firebrand. With her wild red hair, flashing blue-gray eyes, searing intelligence, she was a force. Adele found herself often in awe of her daughter’s ability to stand up for herself.

“Those glasses,” Violet went on, “cost eight hundred dollars.We can barely afford that. At the very least, that little fucker and his filthy-rich parents should be paying for it.”

“Language!”

Blake would have to wear his old prescription for a while. The fact that Violet knew that, that it concerned her, was a source of shame for Adele. She’d leaned too much on Violet; as a result, her daughter had had to grow up too fast.

“Let’s put a pin in this until after dinner,” said Adele, setting their dishes on the table while Violet got the water, and Blake, who hadn’t said a word, placed the napkins and silverware. Her heart ached looking at him. Those shiners were growing darker by the second, the surrounding skin pink and raw from the cold of the ice pack.

Anger. It was always on simmer inside her. She’d used it—to get her act together, to get in the best shape of her life, to find work, to pursue a degree, and to take care of her family in the wake of Miller’s crimes. But sometimes it threatened to overwhelm her. She’d need to go a few rounds with the punching bag suspended from the rafters in the garage when the kids were doing their homework.

They sat and ate. Their nightly ritual of sitting for dinner, no matter how late everyone got home, was a comfort to Adele. It was one of the few things she knew she’d done right.

As hot as Violet’s temper ran, it passed just as quickly. Soon, she was talking about how she didokay, not greaton her biology test, how her best friend Coral got in trouble in gym class for beaning (accidentally!) one of the mean girls with a volleyball, how all the boys in her school weredisgusting.Her chatter was a salve. Even Blake seemed to relax as he scarfed down his meal. He may have even smiled.

She watched them. How could two kids from the same parents be so different? Blake’s black hair a striking contrast to Violet’s fairness, his deep brown eyes against Violet’s sometimes stormy gray, sometimes sky-blue. Blake had his father’s high cheek bones,serious brow. Violet had Adele’s bisque skin, long nose. Adele’s maternal grandparents were Scandinavian. Her father’s mother was Japanese, his father from Nigeria; they met in the Peace Corps. Miller was Russian on both sides. In her children’s faces she saw the blend of all these places around the world. They were true American kids, their heritage a vibrant mosaic. Violet was all light, high energy, optimism. Blake was her worrier, her old soul.That’s the Russian in him, Miller had said when Blake emerged from the womb with a furrowed brow.

“And—ugh—I’m so PMS,” concluded Violet. “I’m getting my period any minute.”

“Jesus, Violet,” Blake finally spoke up. Violet’s smile told Adele that goading her brother had been exactly the point.

“Grow up, you big baby.” She elbowed him. “Womenmenstruate.”

Blake dipped his head in his hand, blushing. “Seriously, V?”

Adele laughed, the tension of the day easing some.

Then the doorbell rang.

They all froze, looking at each other. Not a normal response to the ringing of the doorbell. But they were not a normal family. They were a family always waiting for the next bad thing to happen.

“Probably just a delivery,” said Adele, rising. “Sit.”

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