“Exactly,” Dan said. “He’s a dinosaur. Does everything drunk and hopes we’ll be too busy with national news to read his sloppy reports properly.” He stood up, putting his napkin down on the table, stopping at the running sound of tiny feet.

“Papa!” Victorine called.

Dan kissed her cheeks, soft and warm from her bed. No matter how early he left in the morning, Victorine had a sixth sense about it and would always wake up to kiss him and hug him before he was gone.

“Come here, princess,” Walter ordered.

Victorine walked dutifully over and placed a delicate kiss on each of her grandfather’s cheeks, still reserved, Dan noted, even after all this time. Not that she saved her reserve for Walter; she regarded everyone with a graveness and reticence that was completely out of place on someone not quite six years old, never relaxing into friendliness the way she’d done with Jess.

Jess. Dan winced as he did every time he so much as caught himself about to think of her.

“Did you swallow an elephant, Papa?” Victorine asked mischievously, having noticed his grimace.

“Something like that.” He grinned at her.

“Can I come with you today?” Victorine wheedled.

“You’ll be bored,” Dan said automatically, then relented as he always did. “But you can come and have lunch with me.”

Victorine clapped her tiny hands and then sat herself at the table to start her breakfast with her grandfather, who would always try to clear the newspapers away, deeming them unfit for children. Nobody ever said that everything Victorine had seen up to that point in her life had been unfit for children.

* * *

That night, when Dan returned home, he stopped in at Victorine’s bedroom. As always, she lay awake waiting for him and he tried to remind himself to be home by nine so she would get more sleep, except that he had strong reasons for staying out late. The light in the hallway wasn’t on, as it should be, and he reached around for the switch, snapping it on, and crossing to Victorine’s side when he saw her face. It bore the red and unmistakable mark of a hand slapped on it.

“What happened?” he said, lifting her out of the bed and tucking her into his lap, burying her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair.

“I was naughty,” Victorine sniffed.

He didn’t ask her anything else. “Never say that you’re naughty,” he whispered, kissing her forehead and holding her tightly to him until her limbs relaxed and her breath evened out into sleep. He tucked her back into bed and then made himself walk to the room at the other end of the hallway. He opened the door.

From where he stood, it was impossible to tell that anything was awry. Lamps, carefully chosen for the quality of their shades and the low, soft light that pooled at the stand without casting more than a faint glow into the room, made it seem as if she were simply a wife, and a beautiful one at that, waiting for her husband. Her face was assiduously painted with powder and color and all manner of creams and lotions, the dress selected to draw attention to her legs and her cleavage. It was only when she turned to his voice, asking, “What did you do?” that she revealed a tumescent ridge of scar tissue, crawling like a worm over her face, and the sleeve from which nothing hung.