Free Grim by Anna Waggener Page B

plush raspberry velvet, the rest a buttercream paint that had begun to peel. Dust blanketed the tall four-poster bed and settled along the lines of the curtains, giving a fur coat to the burgundy silk. An old bureau, a wardrobe, and a mint-colored wing chair, faded and threadbare, made up the rest of the room’s furniture. The door on the back wall stood open to a small bath with a tub, toilet, and single-tap sink.
    â€œYou’ve had a bad crack on the head, miss,” Martha said. “I’ll bring some bandages for that. And clean clothes for you.”
    â€œIs there warm water?”
    â€œI could have some boiled.”
    â€œIf it’s no trouble.”
    Martha nodded.
    â€œAnd a towel,” said Erika.
    â€œA towel, of course.”
    â€œAnd soap, please.”
    Martha looked her up and down. “Hm,” she said, and then turned on her heel and left the bedroom.
    Erika watched her leave before scanning her new haunts. She felt small and out of place in the middle of so much old-world opulence. Too much history mingled with the dust of the house, and too much pain dripped beneath the paint and the flocked wall. History and pain that she had no business seeing.
    To block out these problems that didn’t belong to her, she focused on her own. Now that she had some privacy, she allowed herself to begin to lay out the pieces. She didn’t know how to put them together just yet, but she needed to see what her options were. Shawn, Rebecca, and Megan. She took a deep breath.
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    Shawn looked at his hands and saw that they were small, and tanned from summer, but, for some reason, this didn’t surprise him. He was crouched beneath the hickory tree in the backyard, an old tennis ball by his knee. He picked it up and felt the summer dust rub against his palms. He remembered this afternoon. It was late July, and he was nine years old.
    The screen door crashed shut as John Stripling walked down the back steps.
    â€œShe’s asleep now,” he told Shawn. He sounded proud.
    â€œWhy’d you hit her?”
    His father’s eyes clouded. “I did not hit her, Shawn. I never hit her. I only put her to bed. Why would I hurt your mother? I love her.”
    â€œAre you going to hurt me too?”
    â€œHave I ever hurt you before?” He answered himself before Shawn had a chance to open his mouth: “Of course not. Your mother’s so tired she doesn’t know what she’s saying. I only put her to bed, Shawn. Can’t you see that?”
    â€œI can see her bruises.”
    John Stripling jerked Shawn up by the collar of his T-shirt. “Now you listen to me,” he said. A sour taste of whiskey caught far back in Shawn’s mouth as the smell seeped from his father’s pores. “Don’t talk like that. You walk around lying like that and some cop is going to believe you. Cops like to believe little kids when they say lies like that. I don’t want your mother to have any more trouble out of you.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Shawn struggled to look innocent as his father tried to fish out the lie.
    â€œYes, Dad ,” John Stripling said, finally satisfied. “We’re not an army family.”
    â€œWe’re not a family at all.”
    â€œShawn.” He yanked his son’s shirt harder this time, so that the front collar made Shawn’s throat flush red.
    Erika came running out of the house.
    â€œGet your hands off him!”
    â€œBack inside, Erika,” John said. “Go to bed.”
    â€œGo to bed?” she screamed. “Is that all you can ever say to me?”
    â€œI won’t speak to you like this.”
    â€œDamn you, John!” She gave him a hard slap across the face.
    There was a long, dead pause. Shawn held his breath.
    John dropped his son’s T-shirt and grabbed his wife instead, taking both of her arms in his hands and pressing them together, so that her whole body curved in. “Get