I didn’t flinch. I just held up my phone. On the screen was a photo I had taken the night of the assault—my bloodied mouth, the broken tooth, the fear in my eyes.
“Touch me again,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, “and this photo goes to the police, along with the rest of the file that Mr. Keller didn’t get. The part about the grandmother’s loans.”
She froze. Her hand hovered in the air, then dropped to her side.
“You’re ungrateful,” she spat, tears streaming down her face. “After everything we gave you. We’re family.”
“No,” I said. “You’re parasites.”
The word hung in the cool night air. I savored it. I tasted the irony of it, sweet and heavy.
“And parasites,” I continued, quoting her own words back to her, “should learn to obey.”
My father looked at the ground. He was shaking. “We have nothing,” he whispered. “The house… the reputation… it’s all gone.”
