Two days after Deputy Cody’s interrogation, Lloyd had Derek and me accompany him to the farmer’s market. I suspected he was trying to get me away from Katie for a while. It was fair. In his place, I might have done the same.

  A low fog lay over the valley that morning, clinging to the ground like something that did not want to let go. It made me wonder how many people would bother showing up to buy fresh milk and jam under such a gloomy sky. I shrugged on my jacket and slipped the pistol into the pocket. With all the talk of gas station robberies (and the attention of at least one cop) I wanted the comfort of knowing I could defend myself.

  Derek and I loaded the back of Lloyd’s truck with crates of fresh milk, jars of berry jam Carol had made, and boxes of homemade beef jerky. The tailgate slammed shut with a dull thud.

  We pulled into the market just before seven in the morning. Derek and I unloaded while Lloyd went off in search of someone named Phineas to pay for our spot. Derek showed me how to arrange the goods so they looked inviting, the careful balance of order and abundance meant to coax strangers into opening their wallets. When Lloyd returned, he said we would take turns watching the stall in pairs while the third wandered the market. Lloyd and I took the first shift while Derek went off to browse.

  When the aisle was empty, Lloyd leaned close and whispered, “Did you hurt anyone?”

  “What?” I heard him clearly. I needed the extra second to decide whether truth or fabrication would serve me better.

  “When you ran away,” he said, generous enough to clarify. “Was it because you hurt someone?”

  My mouth dried. I swallowed and pictured the bullet ending my father’s life so quickly that pain never had time to arrive.

  “No,” I said. It felt honest enough.

  He studied me, brow knitting. “That the truth?”

  His stare cut straight through me. I saw my mother bent over my father’s body, hollowed out by his death and my disappearance. I recalled how I’d failed my sister all those years ago. Lilah and Ophelia must have been shattered by the way I vanished from their lives.

  I said whispered back, “I’m sure my spinelessness a lot of people.”

  Lloyd’s face softened. Suspicion gave way to something gentler. “Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I can.” Halfway through the sentence, emotion caught in my throat. My lip trembled. My eyes burned. I twisted my face as if making myself ugly might hold keep the dam from bursting.

  Stop crying! my father’s voice barked inside my skull. Face it like a man!

  The muscles in my lower back tensed, recalling all the times I’d been hit for crying as a child. Then hit again because I still couldn’t stop.

  A weight seemed to settle across my shoulders, and I bent my head, accepting it the way an ox accepts a yoke. I muttered a curse and hid my face behind my hand. If anyone saw it would invite suspicion.

  Stop hiding! the memory thundered. Put your hand down and face it!

  GO TO HELL! I screamed back inside myself. Only then did it occur to me that I might have already sent him there. A brief flicker of satisfaction flared, then collapsed into self-loathing. I sobbed, tears and mucus streaking down my face.

  A hand touched my shoulder and I flinched.

  Lloyd pulled back, then reached out again. His fingers were warm as he rubbed between my shoulder blades, just like my grandpa used to. When he stopped, his hand rested lightly against my spine. Steady. Kind.

  I pulled tissues from my pocket, my knuckles brushing the cold metal of the pistol hidden there.

  As I wiped my face, he whispered, “I’m sorry for what I said the other day.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That I’d kill you.” He sighed. “I was just worried about Katie, understand? She’s got a history of gettin’ together with the wrong sorts of guys. I’m sure you noticed.”

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  Thinking of Cody, I had to agree.

  “I don’t know what’s happening between you two,” Lloyd said, “And maybe I don’t need to know. But I need you to know this: I’m not going to hurt you. As long as you don’t try to hurt me or the people I love, I will never hurt you. Alright?”

  The promise felt impossible. Closeness always seemed to come with barbs. We enter the world soft and exposed, and life hardens us into porcupines. Our quills draw blood.

  Still, I wanted to believe him.

  “Thank you,” I said, wiping my face again. “Ugh, sorry. Hope I’m not scaring off the customers.”

  Apparently not. A woman stopped to buy two bottles of milk. Soon after, a man in a flannel overshirt and white cowboy hat purchased some beef jerky.

  Cars began filling the parking lot as the hour wore on. Derek returned, and Lloyd told me it was my turn to walk the market.

  I wandered past stalls selling more than food. One woman offered hand-knitted stuffed animals. Another sold landscape paintings, scenes of farmland captured on canvas. A third displayed pewter miniatures for tabletop games. I picked up a rogue figure with a hooded cloak, daggers raised.

  “Get over here!”

  The shout snapped through me like a whip, too close to my father’s voice. My hands shook as I set the miniature back.

  It’s not him, I told myself. It can’t be. I dared to turn my head.

  A girl around six whimpered as a burly man with a thick black beard yanked her forearm. She struggled. His grip tightened. His face burned red with rage.

  “Daddy, that hurts!” she cried.

  I saw Ophelia. I saw my sister. I saw myself.

  “Well, stop running off!” he roared.

  People looked, then looked away.

  As he dragged her toward the parking lot, hate boiled up inside me. If this was how he acted in public, what happened when no one was watching?

  I failed to protect my sister…

  My hand slid into my jacket pocket, fingers closing around cold metal. I had eight rounds left. Eight demons to slaughter.

  I failed Ophelia too…

  Reason slipped away. All I could see was the girl’s pain. All I could hear was the voice urging me forward. Save her.

  I followed them.

  The pistol felt familiar in my grip. Comforting. One squeeze and it would be over. The first time I fired it had been self-defense. This would be defense too, but this time of someone weaker than me.

  “Get in the car!” the man shouted as he shoved her into the back seat. She squirmed. He forced the seat belt closed. I saw faint yellow and blue bruises on her arm, mirrors of the ones my father left on me.

  I was seven paces away.

  He turned. “The Hell are you staring at?”

  Fear crushed the rage. My neck burned with remembered hands. I looked away. “Nobody. Sorry.”

  He sneered and turned back.

  Rage flooded in again. “Not a soul,” I muttered. I imagined shooting him in the back.

  Head or spine? I considered whether it would be better to end him right away or to make him think about what he’d done while he bled out.

  Then I saw the girl watching me. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  Why are you afraid of me? I’m here to save you.

  “Hey, Bob, you wanna cool it?”

  The voice was gruff and unfamiliar. Bob stiffened.

  The man approaching wore a tan button-up shirt, a brown cowboy hat, and a badge that read “Sheriff.” A revolver rode his belt beside a flashlight, handcuffs, and a radio. A bushy mustache shaded his mouth.

  “Sheriff Dawes…” Bob straightened, every sign of confidence gone.

  Dawes worked a toothpick between his teeth. “Wasn’t that long ago we got a report of you shouting at her and twisting her arm at the feed store too.”

  Bob said nothing, his eyes wandering over the crowd that had gathered to watch the scene unfold.

  “Mhmm,” Dawes said. “Hands on the car. Spread ’em.”

  Bob complied, cursing aloud.

  “Robert Shaw, you’re under arrest for child endangerment, assault, and domestic violence.” The sheriff proceeded to recite the Miranda Rights as he cuffed the perpetrator.

  Relief should have come then. Instead, fear locked me in place. If Dawes sensed what I almost did, I would be next.

  Sheriff Dawes turned. “Cheryl?”

  “Yeah, Sheriff?”

  “You got Peggy’s number?”

  “I do.”

  “Call her. Tell her to come take their girl home. I’m taking Bob in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door slammed. Dawes pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself, then crossed toward Cheryl. “Can you stay with her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” He tipped his hat, then glanced at me. “You can relax now, son. No need to get into a fight today.”

  I assumed he saw my posture, not the gun. Had my intent to attack Bob been so obvious?

  As the cruiser drove off, I clung to the comforting idea that sometimes abusers face justice.

  Then a new thought hit me. I never saw the sheriff arrive. I had been so lost in my head that the law slipped right past me. Worse, I nearly committed murder in front of him and dozens of witnesses.

  I returned to Lloyd’s stall with pins and needles crawling over my skin.