DOWNSTAIRS, I detach Cassie from Treehouse and send her to her room. “You’ll be okay. Opal’s home. But keep your door shut.”

I’m sick to death of a lot of stuff, including the fear in her eyes. Four years old. It’s gotta stop.

Floyd parks the Hummer by the garage at precisely 5:10. He throws his briefcase, tie, and linen jacket on the kitchen table; his shirtsleeves are already rolled up. All set for business. Taking me by the arm, he pushes me against the wall. “I lost the sale. You spooked the customer.”

Dead calm in my gut now. Any chance it could be called courage? I doubt it. “No,” I say, “you spooked him. The mask slipped, Floyd, and I wasn’t the only one to see it.”

He says, spacing his words, “I’m going to give you a beating you’ll never forget.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll go to the dealership tomorrow, take my shirt off in front of your boss, and tell him what happened.”

“You little bastard!”

“I wish I was.”

He moves so fast I don’t see it coming. Grabbing my elbow, he twists me around so I’m nose to the wall and hooks his arm around my neck. Tightens it. Tightens it some more, pressing against my throat. When I try to shout for help, all that comes out is a feeble groan.

Too feeble for Opal to hear.

Little red spots dance in front of my eyes, blackness swirling behind them. Knees buckling. Mouth open, straining to scream.

Docker ... the sleeper hold.

I tuck my chin in, hard, grip Floyd’s arm, and pull down in a desperate burst of strength. My fingers dig into his flesh. As his arm loosens, I kick him in the shin, raking my heel down the bone.

Should be wearing Wendell’s boots. Floyd tries to hook me with his other arm. His nails gouge my skin, pain hot as fire.

Throwing myself back, I knock him off-kilter and I’m free, air rasping into my lungs, the black mist still hovering behind my eyes.

Shrill as a fire bell, the telephone rings.

One ring. Opal calls down the stairs, “The phone’s for you, Floyd. It’s Pete.”

My head hanging down, the blackness slowly vanishing, I gulp mouthfuls of air.

Floyd runs his fingers through his hair and picks up the receiver. “Pete,” he says genially, “what’s up?”

I make it across the room and take the stairs one by one, hauling on the banister. Once I’m in the bathroom, I lock the door. Three raw welts cross my collarbone, all of them bleeding.

I don’t look so hot. Face white, twin red patches high on my cheekbones, like a clown in a circus.

10.4 [self-disclosure]