I hold her at arms’ length. Across the corner of the coffee table my eyes meet Floyd’s. His chest’s heaving like he just ran the length of the road. He says, “You tell her she should never— ever—turn on me again. Is that clear?”

“You hit her! She’s four years old.”

“Did you hear me?”

Cassie has stopped struggling. I hug her close to my chest. “Have you hit her before?”

“And tell her to stay out of my way.”

I feel like I just swallowed a whole shitload of frozen corn. This isn’t the first time he’s hit Cassie. Where the hell have I been?

Her crooning to herself in the backyard about messes and Bang-ups …

“You have hit her before,” I say in a dead voice. “Why would you do that? She doesn’t remind you of Thaddeus. Not like me.”

“Get her out of my sight! Then clean up this mess.”

We both need to be out of his sight. I carry Cassie upstairs, feeling his gaze drill into my back. In her room, I sit down on the bed and swipe my wet cheeks with the back of one hand.

Horrified, I realize she’s crying, tears brimming on her lashes, spilling down her face, splashing onto my bare arm. I put both arms around her and draw her close. She huddles into my chest. By now she’s sobbing, this little kid who hardly ever cries.

I remember the morning she spilled the milk, how she cowered into her seat. I remember the day I was going to leave her home with Floyd, her face dead-white. I also remember how she’s reverted to sucking her thumb. All those clues, and I ignored every one of them. How could I have been so stupid?

I can’t leave her alone with him ever again. Not for an hour. Not even for five minutes.

But that’s not all. Like a sledgehammer to the chest, I realize something else. I can’t leave here the day I turn sixteen. Leave her with Floyd? With me gone, she’d be the only one left for him to knock around. She’d be his pressure valve. His punching bag.

I’m tied to her. We’re in this together and no way out.

My little sister. Who came to my rescue.

I rub my cheek on her hair. I love Cassie.

Well yeah, of course I do. I just never put it into words before.

The walls crowd closer. Rain patters on the roof like little feet. I shut my eyes, rocking her back and forth.

9.2 [“Dead Man Walking”]

EVENTUALLY CASSIE stops crying; I pass her a Kleenex and she blows her nose. “How many times has Floyd hit you, Cassie?”

She unfolds four fingers on her right hand and holds them up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You said not to.”