Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Gavin was full of life. But it was her Danny Boy she worried about.
She walked over to where he sat at the counter, coloring a picture of a fire truck. She ruffled his hair, leaning in to take in the scent of her precious little boy—apples and hay. He smelled like everything good and pure in the world.
“I like that,” she said. “What’s the dog’s name?” she asked, pointing to the dalmatian sitting next to the truck, his tongue out, ears perked.
Danny paused. “I don’t know,” he said.
“How about Spot?” Violet suggested, leaning in closer.
“I like Jaxon,” he told her shyly, his eyes meeting hers, looking for approval.
“That’s a wonderful name for a dog. Maybe one day we’ll get a dog and that’s what we’ll call him. What do you think?”
Danny gave her one of his sweet, gap-toothed smiles, and she smiled back. But then his gaze moved to the bandage on her head, and his smile faltered, faded. He looked back to the drawing, moving his red crayon back and forth.
Her heart gave a painful squeeze. “Hey, Danny Boy, how about I make those doughnuts you like for dessert?”
His lips tipped, and he nodded. “Then doughnuts it is.” She hadn’t made them in a while because last time she had, Gavin had eaten one and broken out in a rash from some ingredient or another. But they were Danny’s favorite. “And then, how about we play a game?” she said, trying to infuse some optimism into her voice, hoping he’d give her another smile. Danny loved it when she played games with him, giving him all her attention. His eyes would widen with delighted happiness when she let cards cascade through her fingers like water, the skill that came so easy to her. Effortless. Second nature. “Checkers or—”
“Jesus Christ, shut that kid up.”
Violet jumped as the back door slammed. She whirled around, bringing her hand to her chest. Oh God. She hadn’t heard him coming over Gavin’s banging. She ran to her toddler, grabbed the spoon from him, and turned back around. “Roger! I didn’t know you’d be home early,” she said, her words spilling out in a rush. Her gaze flew around. Dinner wasn’t ready. The boys weren’t cleaned up, and neither was the house. Neither was she for that matter. She ran a hand over her dirty, lank hair and then picked up Gavin, propping him on her hip. She’d meant to do so much more by this point in the day, but her head ached so badly, and she still felt mildly nauseous. Out of sorts. She likely had a concussion, but she didn’t dare go to the hospital. There would just be questions, and she wasn’t up for spinning lies. Not today.
“Clearly,” Roger said, loosening his tie and looking around in disgust. At the counter, Danny sat stock still, staring at his father with wide, fearful eyes. Violet swore she felt her heart splinter. Roger’s gaze hung on his seven-year-old for a moment, and then he looked away as if Danny were nothing more than another appliance in the kitchen. “I need a goddamn drink.” He tossed his briefcase and his tie on the counter and walked into the living room.
Violet released a slow breath, then set Gavin back down and rushed to the stove, where she took the breadsticks out of the oven. Thank God they weren’t burned. Depending on what type of day Roger had had, things like burnt breadsticks could result in broken bones.
Only hers, so far. Thank God. But her worst fear was the day when hurting her wouldn’t be enough. Or he’d kill her, and then he’d turn to their sons.
“Danny, will you grab the napkins and help me set the table?”
Danny climbed down from the counter stool and headed to the drawer where they kept the linens. She’d turned back to the stove when she heard Danny let out a small gasp, but before she could turn to see what the problem was, she was grabbed harshly by her hair, her head jerking backward. She let out a shocked, guttural cry as Roger pulled her brutally and then pushed her so hard that she fell to the floor, going down on her hip, pain exploding up the left side of her body. She scrabbled backward and turned just in time to see him lunging at her. She screamed again as he yanked her up by the front of her shirt and pushed her against the counter.
He got right in her face, his hot breath gusting over her skin. “Did you think I wouldn’t see his number on the phone? Did you, whore?”
Oh God. Oh God. The phone. She hadn’t deleted his number. She’d meant to . . . she’d just lost track of time, and her head had ached so badly, and she’d napped along with the boys, so grateful that they’d been tired, too, and had let her rest as long as they had. “He’s my friend, Roger. Not even really that. Just my ex-boss. He was only calling to say happy birthday.”