Chapter 2 - The Kitchen of Indifference
I burst through the front door,
my clothes soaked and clinging to my skin,
dripping water onto the hardwood floor I once polished as a child.
The air inside the house was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and something sour,
like spilled wine or neglected lives.
In the doorway of the kitchen stood my mother,
leaning against the frame with a grace that was entirely unearned.
She wore her favorite silk robe,
the pale pink fabric shimmering in the dim light,
looking as if she had just woken from a long,
peaceful nap.
She didn't run to me.
She didn't cry.
She simply looked at me with an expression of mild annoyance,
as if I were a solicitor who had knocked at an inconvenient hour.
"You're tracking water everywhere,
Karina,"
she said,
her voice smooth and devoid of any maternal warmth.
I stared at her,
the shock of her indifference hitting me harder than the storm outside.
"Where is she?"
I demanded,
my voice shaking with a mixture of exhaustion and fury.
"Where is Chloe?"
My mother shrugged,
a delicate movement of her shoulders that made my blood boil.
"The hospital,"
she replied dismissively.
"She made such a fuss,
calling the police and the ambulance."
"It was quite a spectacle for the neighbors."
"She's fine,
really."
"It’s just a minor scratch."
I pushed past her,
my boots thudding against the linoleum of the kitchen.
And then I saw it.
The refrigerator.
The white metal door was dented inward,
a sickening crater at the height of a woman's skull.
Smeared across the handle and dripping down the front was a dark,
viscous red.
My sister's blood.
It was more than a scratch.
It was a crime scene.
Jonah was sitting at the kitchen table,
a glass of bourbon in his hand,
his feet propped up on a chair.
He looked up as I entered,
a mocking smile playing on his lips,
his eyes filled with a terrifying vacancy.
"The big sister arrives,"
he chuckled,
taking a slow sip of his drink.
"Five hours for a bloody nose?"
"You always were the dramatic one."
I looked at the dent in the fridge,
then back at him.
He was a large man,
with hands like hams and a neck that seemed to disappear into his shoulders.
He had used his strength to crush a girl who couldn't even stand without help.
"She slipped,"
my mother said from behind me,
her voice coming closer.
"Jonah tried to catch her,
but she's so clumsy with those crutches."
"She hit the fridge on the way down."
"That’s the story you're going with?"
I asked,
turning to face them both.
"A slip?"
"In a kitchen with no water on the floor?"
"While she was calling me in terror?"
Jonah laughed,
the sound a guttural bark that made my skin crawl.
"Believe what you want,
cop girl."
"The police were already here."
"They didn't see anything wrong."
I looked at the bourbon glass,
the way his fingers gripped it.
I looked at my mother,
standing behind the man who had nearly killed her daughter,
defending him with a lie she had practiced in her head.
I felt a strange,
deadly calm settle over me.
The fear was gone.
The panic was gone.
In its place was the professional precision I had honed for eight years.
I reached into my bag,
not for a weapon,
but for my phone.
I began to take pictures.
The dent.
The blood.
The position of the chairs.
The half-empty bottle of bourbon on the counter.
"What are you doing?"
my mother snapped,
her voice finally rising in pitch.
"Put that away!"
"I'm documenting,"
I said,
my voice flat and cold.
"I'm a senior investigator for the State Attorney General."
"And this house is now an active investigation site."
Jonah’s smile faltered.
He sat up,
his feet hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
"You have no jurisdiction here,"
he growled.
"This is my house."
"Chloe is a vulnerable adult,"
I countered,
stepping closer to him.
"Her care is funded by the state."
"That makes her my jurisdiction."
"And if she has a broken nose and a concussion,"
"that makes this a felony."
I looked at my mother,
who had turned pale.
"You picked him over her,"
May you like
I whispered.
"That was your final mistake."
