“You should be married.” He waved his fork at the empty seats surrounding the dining room table. “I should see some goddamn grandkids sitting in these chairs by now. Have you even once dated since that Brian guy jilted—”

“Mike,” her mother interrupted, gentle reproof in her voice as her worried gaze darted to Claire.

Her father threw his utensils down on his plate, the loud clatter on her mother’s china making her cringe. Leaning back in his chair, he tossed his hands up in the air. “What now, Kathleen? Can’t I speak my mind in my own damned house? What is she? Some goddamned piece of crystal that will break if I mention—”

“Stop yelling at her.” Claire’s words were barely audible, just a puff of air, a whisper of sound as her hand strangled a homemade roll into crumbs. Yet she might as well have shouted. Her mother gasped.

Her father glared at her, the tic that always warned of a dangerous mood jumping wildly at the corner of his left eye. Claire rubbed the edge of her eye as if she felt it herself, as if she could rub it away. Years had passed since she’d seen the tic, but some things remained permanently etched in memory.

“What did you say to me, girl?” He spoke slowly. Precisely.

Something dark and dangerous unfurled in her belly and this time she had no trouble finding her voice. She lifted her chin. “Don’t yell at her. I don’t like it.” Ignoring her mother’s swiftly shaking head, Claire continued. “I’ve never liked it. And I can’t imagine she does either.”

“You don’t like it!” His face turned a deep shade of red as he leaned forward in his chair, pushing his face close to hers. Too close. Her sensitive nose twitched, revolted by the stink of onions on his breath. “Since when does what you like matter in this house?”

A dull roaring started in her ears, increasing in volume as Claire reached for her sweating glass, needing something to hold, to grasp—to stop herself from hauling back and cracking that square jaw of his with her fist.

Only her father didn’t know when to quit. Never had.

His eyes raked her with disgust. “No man even wants you. You’re just a dried-up—”

“Mike!” His name flew from her mother’s mouth sharp with reproach. Her hands slapped over her mouth. But too late.

This time her father offered no warning. He lurched from his chair, hand poised high in the air to deliver a slap to her mother.

“No!” The word erupted from Claire’s mouth, an explosion of sound, freezing his hand midair.

His head snapped in her direction, then, for some reason, swiveled to the wall. He lowered his hand and dropped heavily back into his chair, still staring intently at the wall.