Chapter 1 - THE TWO FINGERS EMMA UNDERSTOOD
My husband dragged me across our foyer by my hair while our four-year-old daughter watched.
The first pull knocked the cane from my hand.
The second twisted my injured leg beneath me.
Pain shot from my knee through my hip, and I hit the hardwood hard enough to lose my breath.
David stood above me in his white shirt and loosened blue tie.
Six months earlier, I would have fought him.
Six months earlier, I could run.
Now my right leg was held together by a surgical plate, physical therapy, and the stubborn belief that eventually I would move without thinking about every step.
David knew exactly which direction hurt most.
That was why I knew the way he dragged me was not accidental.
Emma stood beside the telephone table in pink pajamas.
Her hands were trembling.
David looked at her and smiled.
Then looked down at me.
“Scream all you want, Sarah. Your father isn't coming to save you.”
Behind him, Margaret lifted a wineglass to her lips.
My mother-in-law had watched the entire thing.
No shock.
No attempt to stop him.
Just that small, contemptuous expression she wore whenever my injury inconvenienced her.
“Now look at that,” she said. “Fragile girls always make such expensive messes.”
I could barely breathe.
David crouched.
“You had one job.”
I knew what he meant.
Do not touch the investment account.
He had been saying it for three weeks.
His money.
His business.
His decision.
Except that afternoon I had opened our brokerage statement and found a transfer I did not recognize.
$286,000.
Gone.
When I called the bank, they told me the money had moved to a company called Whitmore Capital Partners.
David's company.
I froze the next scheduled transfer.
He came home forty minutes later.
Now I knew the bank had called him.
David leaned closer.
“You think because you're hurt you get to destroy everything I built?”
“I asked where the money went.”
“You froze my account.”
“Our account.”
His eyes changed.
That distinction always enraged him.
Mine.
Yours.
Ours.
David preferred those words only when he chose which one applied.
Emma started crying.
I looked toward her.
Then raised two fingers.
Small.
Low.
Just above the floor.
Emma saw them.
Three weeks earlier, after David had punched a bedroom door during an argument, my father had taught Emma one emergency rule.
If Mommy ever shows you two fingers, call Grandpa.
Not police.
Not because my father was powerful.
Because a four-year-old could remember Grandpa.
Emma ran to the phone.
David turned.
“Emma.”
She pressed the glowing call button.
His voice sharpened.
“Hang up the phone, Emma. Unless you want me to beat her even worse.”
My daughter sobbed.
Then screamed into the receiver:
“Grandpa, please help! A devil is beating my mom!”
David stopped moving.
Margaret lowered her wineglass.
For the first time all evening, she looked frightened.
Emma listened.
Then nodded through tears.
“Yes, Grandpa.”
David lunged one step toward her.
I pushed myself upright on one elbow.
“Don't.”
He looked down at me.
Something in my face made him stop.
Emma whispered into the phone.
“Okay.”
Then she hung up.
David stared at her.
“What did he say?”
Emma backed toward me.
I reached for her.
She crawled against my chest.
David asked again.
“What did he say?”
Emma buried her face against my shoulder.
I answered for her.
“He said he's coming.”
David laughed.
But it was wrong.
Too fast.
Too loud.
“Your father is a sixty-six-year-old accountant.”
Retired accountant.
Widower.
Bad back.
Terrible golfer.
David was right.
My father was not physically coming to overpower anybody.
That was not why David looked afraid.
Three days earlier, Dad had asked me a strange question.
“Sarah, has David ever had you sign anything while you were taking pain medication?”
I had laughed.
Then I saw he wasn't joking.
Now, lying on the floor with my daughter in my arms, I finally understood.
May you like
Dad had already found something.
And David knew exactly what it was.
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