She was still unconscious when Eric came down for his turn, but she woke up at the end, screaming. Afterward, she curled up in a corner, trying to cover herself with scraps from her shirt.

“I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t answer. She just cried for her mom.

Then Miguel came down again. As soon as she saw him, she tried to scream, but she’d lost her voice. She clawed at the floor when he pulled her out of the corner.

She—” Abby sobbed again, and I wanted to tel her to stop, that she didn’t have to say any more. But she seemed to need to get it out of her system. “Sara kept slamming her head into the concrete like she was trying to knock herself out, but he didn’t care. He just let her. When he was done, he picked her up—set her on her feet like a mannequin. She couldn’t talk anymore by then. She looked like she could barely even move. But then he touched her face. Her ran one finger down her cheek, and she lunged at him. She bit his finger, and he howled. He jerked his hand away, and she just stared at him, blood dripping down her chin.

“Miguel lost it then. He screamed at her in Spanish, or something like that. He hit her in the face with the back of his hand—hard—and she went flying across the cage. Her head hit one of the bars over the mattress, and there was this awful crunching sound. Her arms just hung there for a second, then she slid to the floor.

There was so much blood…”

Ryan looked sick, and I knew exactly how he felt. “Abby…” I didn’t know what to say to her. I didn’t want to hear any more, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“I couldn’t cry for her,” Abby said, her words so choked with sobs that I could barely understand them. “I was afraid he’d come for me if he knew I was awake.”

For several minutes, we sat motionless, listening to Abby cry. I wanted to comfort her but I couldn’t. There was nothing I could say to save her from her memories. I didn’t even know how to fight off my own.

All I could do was change the subject. I was good at that.

When Abby’s sobs faded into quiet hiccups, I glanced at Ryan to find him staring at the ground. “Did you cal Mom?” I said, dreading the answer even as I asked the question. But it was better than thinking about Sara.

Ryan cleared his throat, claiming a stoic expression with obvious difficulty.

“Yeah, a couple of hours ago,” Ryan said. “She’s pretty upset.”

“Ah, the light at the end of the tunnel.” I pulled the lid from my container of mashed potatoes and dug in with my spork. I’d lost my appetite after listening to Abby’s account, but needed something to do with my hands.

“You should lay off her,” he scolded. “She cried in my ear for twenty minutes because she felt guilty about the last conversation you two had.”

“Wel , she should.” I gulped water from my bottle. “My personal life is none of her business.” But Mom crying over me took me by surprise. I’d known she would be upset, like everyone else, because without me there would be no next generation of the south-central Pride. But if she felt guilty for nagging me about Andrew, she must actual y miss me. Not the future dam, but me, al my faults included.

And, in truth, she wasn’t the only one who had been thinking about our last conversation. I’d had plenty of time to mull over what she’d said about being on the council and about my father never making her do anything. All my life, I’d assumed my mother was trapped in her life, and just didn’t realize it because she didn’t know there were any other appropriate options for a woman. But she’d turned my theory on its ear. She’d had power and turned it down, content to make her mark behind the scenes. I’d always thought my mother was weak because she had no obvious strength. But she wasn’t weak, she was just humble. And I’d been stupid and unfair.

Great, now I felt guilty for pigeonholing her as a 1950s model she-bitch. Guilt is a vicious cycle, an emotional slippery slope. I don’t recommend it.

“I tel you what, Ryan,” I said, my voice unusual y soft with regret. “If I ever see her again, I’ll apologize.”

Confusion knit his brows together, as if it had real y never occurred to him that I might not see our mother again, in spite of his own warnings that Miguel might kil me. Sometimes I suspected Ryan was merely visiting the real world, on vacation from his permanent residence in la-la land.

Before I could decide how to respond to his delusion, he changed tracks completely. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Marc?”

I tensed involuntarily, and my spork snapped in half. Smooth, Faythe. I dropped the now-useless plastic handle into the bag. “Why would I?”

Ryan grinned, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Mom said you two had a reunion of sorts the night before you ran off.”

I stuck the functional end of my spork into the half-empty container of potatoes, setting them both aside so I could focus al of my energy on burning a hole through Ryan’s forehead with my stare. “First of al , I didn’t run away. I just went down to the barn to clear my head and try to gain a new perspective.” I smiled, pleased with myself for having put a hel of a good spin on a phenomenal y stupid mistake. Damn, I should write speeches for the president.

Ryan sneered. “A new perspective on why you slept with Marc after ignoring him for five years?”

“No, smart-ass.” I picked the potatoes back up, stirring them aimlessly as I spoke. “I just needed some fresh air. And the thing with Marc was a mistake. I drank too much. That’s it.” I took a bite of mashed potatoes, satisfied that my point had been made, and that I’d told the truth. Or at least one version of it.