Chapter 2

Martha and Frank arrived that afternoon.

The moment Martha stepped in, she hurled herself at me, her hands clamping down on my shoulders as she looked me over.

"Elena, why are you still playing mute?"

"You've gone back to your real parents. Why are you dragging our house's bad habits over here?"

Catherine — my mother — was stunned.

"Playing mute?"

"She's been like this since she was little. The moment she's upset, she clams up, makes everyone try to guess what she's thinking."

Martha wiped her eyes, the words tumbling out fast.

"When she was five, she stole money from our house. Frank and I scolded her a few times, and she sulked and refused to talk."

"After that, whenever strangers were around she'd act all pitiful — but the second she was back home and got a talking-to, suddenly she could say anything just fine."

My whole body went rigid.

That wasn't how it happened.

I had not stolen money when I was five.

That day, Frank had come home stinking drunk and knocked over the kitchen pantry. The last half-loaf of bread had rolled across the floor, and he'd ground it into pulp under his heel.

I was so hungry I finally crept over to Martha and asked, in the smallest voice I could manage, when dinner would be.

She said my crying was bad luck, dragged me down into the basement, and locked me in for two full days.

I signed furiously.

She's lying! She locked me in for two days. It was dark. There was no water. No food.

Martha couldn't read a word of it, but she'd come prepared. She turned to face the room and threw up her hands, weeping.

"See? This is what she does."

"Every time she won't admit she's wrong, she waves around these little gestures no one can understand, playing the poor abused child."

Vivienne spoke softly.

"Aunt Martha... did my sister really talk in front of you? Truly?"

"Of course she did!"

"Besides you and Uncle Frank, did anyone else ever hear her?"

Martha's face stalled for a beat, then she smacked her thigh.

"We lived together every single day. Why would we need witnesses?"

"We raised her for eighteen years. Do you think we'd want to hurt her?"

The tender ache on my mother's face began, little by little, to give way to doubt.

Richard — my father — was silent for a long time before he asked me, quietly:

"Elena. Would you try, just once, to call me Dad?"

I opened my mouth.

My throat felt stuffed with dusty cotton. Not even a breath of sound would come.

Julian stared at me for a long moment.

"You can't — or you won't?"

I took out my phone.

I really can't.

Martha gave a long, weary sigh.

"You'll all have to indulge her, going forward."

"That child loves making trouble. The more you fuss over her, the worse she gets."

Suddenly my mother asked:

"Then what are those marks on her wrist?"

Martha's face changed.

"Country kids get scrapes and bruises. Isn't that normal?"

I yanked up my sleeve.

Beyond my wrist, the inside of my arm bore round scars burned in by cigarettes, and pale ridges where coarse rope had rubbed me raw again and again.

Martha slammed her hand over my sleeve.

"You — what do you think you're doing, undressing in front of all these people!"

My mother's gaze locked on the scars. Her eyes reddened instantly.

Just then, Vivienne clutched her chest, her breath coming fast and shallow, and collapsed onto the sofa.

"Vivienne!"

Everyone rushed to her side.

Dr. Harrison hurried back in and, after examining her, said she was only suffering from acute emotional distress. Nothing serious.

Cradled in my mother's arms, Vivienne still remembered to speak up for me.

"It's my fault. I wasn't understanding enough."

"Sister must have suffered so much in the past that she mistakes discipline for abuse."

One sentence.

It excused Martha and Frank for every scar.

And it turned my memories into exaggeration — into revenge.

Before Martha left, she came to my side and lowered her voice.

"Don't you think for a second that stepping into the Ashfords' house lets you rake up old scores."

"If you dare say a word out of place —"

"I got them to bring you home. I can get them to send you right back."

...

That night, my mother knocked on my bedroom door.

She sat at the edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance, watching me with soft, aching eyes.

"Elena. Mom has hired a professional sign language instructor. Her name is Ms. Reyes."

"She'll come tomorrow."

"You don't have to speak. That's all right."

"You don't have to change. We'll learn how to understand you."

I lifted my head and looked at her.

In that moment, for the first time, I thought —

Maybe coming back here wasn't such a bad thing after all.

But the door was half open.

Vivienne stood in the hall, watching me for a long, long while.

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