“Wait a second,” I say, “and I’ll carry your plate upstairs.”

I turn away to take my own chicken fingers off the cookie sheet. I’m a barbecue sauce guy myself.

An almighty crash in the living room. I whip around. Cassie’s not in the kitchen.

Wood scrapes on wood, followed by a crack like a BB gun. Cassie screeches.

Like a sprinter from the starting gun, I’m into the living room. Broken plate on the floor, sweet-and-sour sauce and ketchup slithering down the leg of the card table, jigsaw pieces scattered all over. Cassie is crouched against the coffee table. On her cheek, red, the imprint of Floyd’s hand.

Floyd hit her. He hit Cassie.

He picks her up by the elbows, holding her chest-high, and shakes her as though she’s a rag doll.

I take two steps forward. Everything in slow motion. Like I weigh 500 pounds.

The roses are still on the coffee table. I wrap both hands around them, toss them to one side, watch them land in the ketchup. I pick up the crystal vase. Can’t throw it in case I hit Cassie.

Water slops over my hand. I swing the vase in an arc. The rest of the water slaps Floyd in the face and drips from Cassie’s curls. He drops her like she’s a piece of garbage.

She bangs into the corner of the coffee table. Her knees hit the floor.

Another two steps. I’m gripping the vase by the throat. I’m gonna bash his brains in.

My sneaker skids off the broken plate, which is slippery with sauce. I glance down. Fatal.

His fist misses my gut, ploughs into my ribcage. Off balance, I flail at him with the vase. It hits him on the arm. Thunk.

Somehow I keep hold of it. Raise it to crack his head open.

I don’t even see his fist. It slams into my shoulder, knocks me backward. The vase goes flying, hits the couch, and bounces to the floor. He lunges at me, twists my shirt, jerks me upright, and slaps me. Once, twice.

My eyes are watering. Frantically I try to anchor my feet, to focus.

Two more vicious slaps. Through a blur of pain and, yep, tears, I see Cassie scramble to her feet and head for Floyd, her nails like claws, her teeth bared.

Then he sees her. His face, like hers, is a mask of fury. I shove him in the chest, jolt him sideways with my hip, and surge toward her. “No, Cassie, no!”

When I pick her up, she struggles, kicking out at me. A sneaker nails me in the belly. “Stop it!”