Chapter 4 - The Flying Monkeys Attack
Two days later, we brought Ethan home.
He was incredibly brave, but the light in his eyes had dimmed. He flinched when I turned on the stove. He hesitated before walking into rooms.
The psychological damage was just as visible as the physical bandages.
Meanwhile, my family had launched a full-scale war.
Since I had blocked their numbers, they started showing up.
It started on Tuesday afternoon. I was in the kitchen cutting the crusts off a sandwich for Ethan when the heavy pounding on the front door made us both jump.
I looked through the peephole. It was my father, Arthur.
His face was red, and he was violently jiggling the locked doorknob.
“Sarah! Open this damn door!” he bellowed.
I felt a familiar spike of anxiety, but before I could move, Daniel came down the hallway.
He didn’t open the door. He opened the window next to it, keeping the screen between them.
“Get off my porch, Arthur,” Daniel said coldly.
“I need to speak to my daughter!” my father yelled, pointing a thick finger at the window. “Carol is out on bail, but she’s facing felony child abuse charges! Do you know what that will do to her reputation?”
“I don’t give a damn about her reputation,” Daniel replied. “She burned a seven-year-old child.”
“It was an accident! A mistake! You people are ruining our lives over a split-second mistake!”
“She held the tongs to his skin for three seconds, Arthur,” I said, finally stepping up beside Daniel. My voice surprised me. It didn't shake.
My father glared at me. “You ungrateful brat. We gave you everything. And this is how you repay us? If you don't call the prosecutor and drop this, I will write you out of the will. You’ll never see a dime.”
I actually laughed. A dry, humorless sound.
“Keep your money, Dad. You're going to need it for Mom's defense attorney.”
“You’re dead to me!” he roared, his face purple.
“Good,” I said. “Now get off my property before I call the cops on you, too.”
He stormed off to his car, peeling out of our driveway.
That night, a letter was slipped into our mailbox. It was written in crayon, but the words were clearly dictated by an adult.
Dear Aunt Sarah. Please don't put Grandma in jail. I am sorry I bumped into Ethan. It is all my fault. Please forgive Grandma.
It was from Tyler.
Melissa was using her own son—the boy who had been pushed into lying, the boy who had tried to tell the truth at the BBQ—as a pawn to guilt-trip me.
It made me physically sick.
May you like
“They have no bottom,” I told Daniel, tearing the note into tiny pieces.
“No,” he agreed, pulling me close. “But they are about to hit a brick wall.”
