This Secret Thing, стр. 77

of the kitchen and farther into the house, his eyes darting around as he took it all in. The fact that Bess hadn’t returned encouraged her. Polly hoped she’d heard. She hoped the girls had heard. She hoped she could get rid of Calvin quickly, appease him, distract him, whatever it took. She squeezed her eyes shut as if when she opened them he would be gone; this would all be a terrible hallucination. She’d never been much of a drinker, and this would prove why she should stay away from the stuff. The worst thing about it was that she and Bess had been having such a nice time. She’d actually been having—as strange as it was on the heels of that hard encounter with Norah—fun.

She watched the back of her husband’s head and wished she had a gun in her own hand. She’d shoot him dead right that moment. For the first time since he’d walked in, she wondered if she would survive this, if he would decide to let her live. She felt her pulse rate pick up, felt the fear rise in her throat like bile.

“I’ll give you the money,” she said. “If that’s what you really want. I’ll give it to you right now. You can just take it and go.”

He turned around. “You make it sound so nice, sweetheart. So civil.” He smiled coldly at her. “But if it was that easy, you’d have already done that. You wouldn’t have taken our money and run off and left me with no explanation. You would’ve answered when I called you.” His voice grew louder. “You wouldn’t have lied to me all these years that you didn’t have a child when you most certainly did. A granddaughter, too.” He narrowed his eyes, held the gun up, and roared, “You’d have respected me like a good wife!”

“I’m sorry, Calvin.” Her voice sounded small and weak. She cowered, afraid of the wild energy rolling off his body and the darkness he seemed to have ushered into the room with him. She wished she had the strength to stand up to him, to not be paralyzed by the threat of his anger paired with that gun. But she knew this: she had to live. Because if she died, Violet would have no one. She couldn’t let that happen. She’d rather placate him and lose some dignity than have her granddaughter find her lying dead in her den. The child had experienced enough.

“I’ll give you the money. I’ll give you all of it. I made a mistake,” she said evenly and calmly. “I reacted badly to the news about my daughter. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve been consumed with things here. I haven’t handled it well.” She could hear herself begging, and she hated it. But she had to do what she must do. Pride, in this case, really would go before a fall. A fall she wouldn’t stand back up from.

He yelled at her again. “You think you can just buy me off? You think that you can hand me money and make up for the disrespect you’ve showed me? You and your whore daughter?”

At that moment, she heard the footsteps on the stairs, four feet running. She dropped her head in defeat. If Violet and Casey showed their faces, things would only get worse. But she couldn’t stop them. Once they saw the gun, they would realize the danger. Once they saw the gun, it would be too late. She thought again of Bess, hoped that wherever she was, she was calling the police. But then she remembered, Bess had left her phone on the island, right beside her wineglass. And Norah didn’t have a house phone that Bess could go to.

At the sound of the girls’ arrival, Calvin turned toward the stairwell with a smirk, the gun pointed. “Hello,” he said. “Which one of you is Violet Ramsey?”

Casey stepped forward without missing a beat. “Me,” she said. “I am.” Violet looked at Polly with questioning eyes. Polly gave her a barely perceptible shake of the head. Just go with it, she willed her granddaughter while silently thanking Casey for doing such a brave—albeit crazy—thing.

She saw Calvin look from one girl to the next. She saw his gaze linger on Violet, and she wondered if, when he saw her, he thought of the framed photo Polly had kept on her dresser. It was of her, her mother, grandmother, and beloved aunt. “Peas in a pod” was written along the bottom of the photo in her grandmother’s chicken-scratch handwriting. That was why she’d kept it. Because of that caption. Because it reminded Polly of where she had come from, of who she was. Which wasn’t this. It wasn’t any of this. She was deeply ashamed of herself for where she had ended up, deeply ashamed of how far she had not come. She had a broken picker. That was clear. So why did she keep on picking?

She hoped that Calvin didn’t see Polly’s younger face on Violet, hoped he wasn’t that bright. Thankfully he didn’t. He just waved the gun at the two of them. “Then who’s this?” he asked Casey.

Casey started to answer, but Violet broke in. “I’m Casey. I’m a neighbor. I was here to help Violet study.”

“Well, isn’t that just peachy?” Calvin singsonged. He stood there for a moment, keeping his eyes on Casey, who he thought was Violet. “You’re a pretty thing,” he said to Casey, who bristled as he said it. He looked over at Polly. “You always said you were a late bloomer, but this one’s not a bit late. I’d say she’s right on schedule.” He laughed, his laughter ringing through the silent house.

In the kitchen, Barney roused, aware that perhaps things weren’t OK. He trotted over to Polly and sat down beside her, nervously watching Calvin.

“You in the same business as your mama?” He turned back to Casey.

Casey stood completely still, but Polly could see she was working hard to keep