Chapter 1 - Forty Minutes
My name is Fletcher Duvall.
I was forty years old when I came home and found my seven-year-old daughter on her knees in a puddle of dirty water.
Ione was wearing pajamas.
Soft lavender ones with tiny white stars.
One slipper lay beneath the hallway table.
The other was soaked through.
Her hair hung wet against her face.
Both hands wrapped around a stiff scrubbing brush.
And my mother stood behind her.
Marjorie Duvall was sixty-five.
Elegant even in the middle of cruelty.
Silk blouse.
Pearl earrings.
Tailored trousers.
Low heels.
She held an empty plastic bucket.
“Again,” she said.
Ione sniffed.
“I did it.”
“You pushed the dirt around.”
“My hands hurt.”
“You have hands because they’re meant to work.”
Then Marjorie poured what remained in the bucket directly over my daughter’s head.
Ione gasped.
Water ran down her face.
Her pajamas darkened.
Marjorie grabbed her shoulder.
Forced her farther down.
“Knees.”
That was the moment I entered.
My briefcase hit the hardwood floor.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!”
Marjorie turned.
“Fletcher—”
I crossed the foyer.
Grabbed her wrist.
Hard enough to break her grip.
Not hard enough to injure.
“Let go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Let. Go.”
She did.
I lifted Ione immediately.
She tried to stand but her knees shook.
I pulled her behind me.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
Her eyes were red.
“What happened?”
“Cleaning.”
I looked at her hands.
Pink.
Raw-looking from water and friction, but no cuts.
No bleeding.
Still enough that my stomach tightened.
Behind us Marjorie straightened her bracelet.
“She’s spoiled. I’m teaching her real work!”
I turned slowly.
“She is seven.”
“Exactly. Old enough to learn that a Duvall doesn’t grow up thinking servants appear by magic.”
“We don’t have servants.”
“You have a housekeeper twice a week.”
“That has nothing to do with putting my daughter on the floor.”
“She spilled juice.”
Ione whispered:
“It was water.”
Marjorie ignored her.
“She refused to clean properly.”
I looked past them.
That was when I saw the pillow.
Small.
Pink pillow from Ione’s room.
A folded blanket beside it.
Both stacked against the wall near the laundry-room door.
Next to:
Cleaning spray.
Bucket.
Brush.
A plastic hamper.
My chest went cold.
“Ione.”
She looked at me.
“Why is your pillow here?”
Her lip trembled.
“Daddy…”
I crouched.
“What?”
“Grandma makes me sleep by the laundry room.”
I stopped breathing.
“What do you mean?”
“When I’m bad.”
Behind me a door opened.
My father stepped out of his study.
Vaughn Duvall.
Sixty-eight.
Tall.
Still built like the man who had once terrified entire construction crews without raising his voice.
He looked at Ione.
Then the wet floor.
Then Marjorie.
His face changed.
I stood.
“Dad… you knew?”
Vaughn looked at Marjorie.
Then finally shook his head.
“I knew about the chores, not her real plan.”
“What real plan?”
His hand went into his pocket.
He pulled out a navy-blue passport.
Ione’s.
Then a folded airline itinerary.
“Found these in her purse.”
I stared.
“What?”
“She’s taking Ione abroad tonight!”
Marjorie moved.
“Give me those.”
Vaughn stepped back.
“No.”
I looked at my mother.
“Where?”
She said nothing.
“WHERE?”
“Canada.”
That answer did not help.
“For what?”
“You’ll understand later.”
“No. I understand enough.”
Ione pressed against my side.
Marjorie reached toward her.
I stepped forward and slapped my mother.
One sharp open-handed strike.
Her head snapped sideways.
Vaughn shouted:
“Fletcher!”
Marjorie grabbed her cheek.
I was breathing too hard.
My voice dropped.
“Touch my daughter again and you’re gone!”
Silence.
Then Vaughn unfolded the itinerary fully.
His face drained of color.
He looked at his watch.
Then at me.
“Fletcher…”
“What?”
May you like
“The flight leaves in forty minutes.”
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