Chapter 1 - The Ice Pack in His Hand
Mom crossed the kitchen, took the ice pack out of his hand, and set herself between him and the front door.
My brother's expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
So did my sister.
Until that moment, Caleb had been annoyed.
Defensive.
Almost amused.
Now he looked afraid.
“Mom,” he said. “What are you doing?”
She didn't answer him.
She looked at seventeen-year-old Sophie instead.
“Come here.”
Sophie didn't move.
She was standing behind me, one hand gripping the back of my shirt.
Mom's eyes dropped to that hand.
Then to the sleeve Sophie had pulled over the other one.
“Sweetheart,” Mom said softly. “Come here.”
Sophie shook her head.
Caleb laughed.
“There. You see? She's being dramatic again.”
Mom turned toward him.
“Stop talking.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I said stop talking.”
Our mother almost never spoke to Caleb like that.
He was twenty-six.
The oldest.
The successful one.
The son who had moved back home “temporarily” after his engagement ended.
The son Mom constantly praised for helping with Sophie while she and Dad worked late.
Caleb drove Sophie to school sometimes.
Made dinner.
Checked her homework.
And whenever Sophie got hurt—which, looking back, seemed to happen strangely often—Caleb appeared carrying an ice pack.
Mom thought it was sweet.
I had thought it was sweet.
Now that ice pack sat melting on the kitchen counter.
Mom held out her hand.
“Sophie.”
My sister finally moved.
Not toward Mom.
Toward me.
She pressed closer to my side.
That hurt Mom.
I could see it.
But instead of demanding that Sophie come to her, Mom stayed where she was.
“Okay,” she whispered. “You can stay with Nathan.”
Caleb scoffed.
“This is insane.”
Mom looked at him.
“Did you lock her in the bathroom?”
“No.”
“The latch is outside.”
“So?”
“So how did she lock herself in?”
“She probably messed with it somehow.”
“From inside?”
Caleb opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I had never seen my brother without an answer.
Then he pointed at Sophie.
“Ask her why I put her there.”
The kitchen went silent.
Mom stared at him.
I felt Sophie stiffen beside me.
Caleb realized his mistake.
“I mean—”
Mom's voice became very quiet.
“Why you put her there?”
“I didn't mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
“She was freaking out.”
“So you did put her in the bathroom?”
“No.”
“You just said you did.”
“I said she was acting crazy.”
Sophie flinched.
Mom noticed.
Caleb tried again.
“You know how she gets.”
There it was again.
That sentence.
A phrase designed to turn Sophie's fear into a personality defect.
Mom slowly looked at my sister.
“What does he mean by that?”
Sophie stared at the floor.
Caleb answered.
“She has these episodes.”
“What episodes?”
“She cries. She screams. She gets hysterical.”
“I don't scream,” Sophie whispered.
Caleb laughed.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don't.”
“You absolutely do.”
Sophie looked at Mom.
“Only when he won't let me leave.”
Caleb stopped laughing.
Mom's face drained of color.
I pulled out my phone.
Caleb noticed immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking pictures.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
I photographed the latch.
The bathroom.
The hallway.
The kitchen.
The ice pack.
Then I asked Sophie if I could photograph her arm.
Caleb stepped forward.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I wasn't asking you.”
He stopped.
Sophie hesitated.
Then slowly rolled up her sleeve.
Mom made a sound I had never heard before.
Not quite a gasp.
Not quite a cry.
There were bruises along Sophie's upper arm.
Some purple.
Some yellowing.
Different ages.
Finger-shaped marks were visible near her shoulder.
Mom covered her mouth.
Caleb immediately began explaining.
“She bruises easily.”
Sophie rolled her sleeve higher.
There was another bruise near her elbow.
Then another.
Mom whispered:
“How long?”
Sophie looked at Caleb.
He stared back.
I moved so she couldn't see him.
“How long, Soph?”
Her lips trembled.
“Since last summer.”
Mom sat down.
Last summer.
Almost ten months.
Ten months of late shifts.
Ten months of ice packs.
Ten months of Caleb telling us Sophie was clumsy.
Moody.
Sensitive.
Difficult.
Mom started crying.
Caleb became angry again.
“Oh, come on.”
I turned.
“Shut up.”
“You shut up, Nathan.”
“You're done talking to her.”
“This is my house too.”
“No,” Mom said.
We both looked at her.
She stood.
Her face was wet, but her voice was steady.
“This is my house.”
Caleb stared at her.
Mom pointed toward the front door.
“You need to leave.”
His expression hardened.
“You're kicking me out because Sophie made up some story?”
Sophie whispered:
“I have videos.”
Nobody moved.
I turned toward her.
“What?”
Caleb went pale.
Sophie looked at me.
Then Mom.
“I recorded him.”
Caleb lunged.
Not toward Sophie.
Toward the stairs.
I caught him before he made it two steps.
“Where are you going?”
“Get off me.”
“Where?”
“My room.”
Sophie screamed:
“My old phone!”
Caleb froze.
She pointed upstairs.
“I hid it in his room.”
Mom stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because he never searches his own things.”
Caleb shoved me.
Hard.
I stumbled backward.
Then he ran upstairs.
I followed.
“Nathan!” Mom shouted.
Caleb reached his bedroom.
He threw open the closet.
Started ripping boxes from the shelf.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.”
He pulled open drawers.
Clothes hit the floor.
Then Sophie appeared behind Mom at the doorway.
She pointed.
“The blue suitcase.”
Caleb stopped.
I looked at the suitcase beneath his bed.
Then at him.
He moved first.
So did I.
We both grabbed it.
He pulled.
I held on.
“Nathan, give it to me.”
“No.”
“You don't know what you're doing.”
“I know exactly what I'm doing.”
He leaned closer.
His voice dropped.
“You think this is just about Sophie?”
Something about the way he said it made me stop.
“What does that mean?”
Caleb looked toward Mom.
Then back at me.
“If she shows you what's on that phone, this family is finished.”
Mom heard him.
Her voice came from behind us.
“Open the suitcase.”
Caleb laughed bitterly.
“You really want that?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
Mom didn't hesitate.
“Yes.”
Caleb released the suitcase.
I almost fell backward.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't relief.
It was something worse.
“Fine.”
He stepped aside.
“Open it.”
I unzipped the suitcase.
Inside were clothes.
Old paperwork.
A shoebox.
And beneath everything, wrapped inside a gray sweatshirt, was Sophie's old phone.
But it wasn't alone.
There were three other phones beside it.
None belonged to Sophie.
Mom picked up one.
“Whose are these?”
Caleb said nothing.
I turned on Sophie's phone.
It still had battery.
The screen lit up.
There were dozens of recordings.
Audio files.
Videos.
Photographs.
Sophie whispered:
“Play the one from December.”
I found it.
December 14.
11:43 p.m.
I pressed play.
At first, all we heard was darkness and Sophie's breathing.
Then Caleb's voice.
But he wasn't talking to Sophie.
He was talking to Dad.
And the first sentence made Mom sit down on the edge of the bed.
Dad's voice came through the recording.
Clear.
Angry.
May you like
Terrified.
“I told you never to touch your sister again.”
