Page 149 of Cashmere Ruin

Yes.I don’t tell him that, though. Instead, I lean quietly down and look through the peephole.

I freeze.

What ishedoing here? How did he know where…?

I force my voice to sound calm. “Hey, can you take May to your room for a bit?”

Charlie frowns. “Apes, are you…?”

“It’s okay,” I cut him off. “I’ll only be a second. But this is really important: no matter what you hear, I want you to stay with her. Can you do that for me?”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I know.” I give him the best smile I can muster. “Don’t worry. This’ll be over in a second.”

With a tight nod, Charlie obeys.

I can tell he doesn’t want to. Even when we were kids, he was always throwing himself between me and danger. He was younger than me, but he still tried to save me every time.

Now, it’s my turn to save him.

You could just keep the door shut, the rational part of me whispers.Call Matvey, tell him what’s happening. He’d come rushing at your side.

But I don’t call him. I’m done hiding behind other people’s backs. I’m done running away.

I fight my own battles now.

So I take a deep breath, steel myself, and open the door.

“Hi, April,” says the man on the other side.

I offer him a tight smile. “Hi, Tom.”

The last time I saw my stepfather, I was seventeen.

It was the day I decided to stick it out at Dominic’s until my eighteenth birthday. Not that I had any control over that: back then, I was being shipped back and forth like an unwanted parcel. But I knew how it worked, and I knew how to beg.

So I begged. I begged my father to take me back. I begged Nora, too, and my stepsisters. I apologized for all the imagined slights they’d cooked up against me and promised to be good from then on. I’d do all the chores, stay out of sight, be as quiet as a mouse.

Because I couldn’t bear to see Charlie hurt again.

No—I couldn’t bear to see him hurtbecause of me.

And I’m not going to let it happen now.

“Where’s my son, April?”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, but you do. That’s his backpack right there.” He points to the corner of the couch.

Crap.“It’s a common brand,” I try.

“Sure, and I’m fucking Santa Claus. Now, where is he?”

I have to force myself not to gag or reel back. The stench of alcohol on his breath is enough to make anyone in a range of fifty feet test positive to a breathalyzer by osmosis. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Tom. You’ve clearly had a few.”

“And I’ll have a few more after I get the kid back. Teach him some respect, while I’m at it.”