You learn very young that terror has a sound.
Sometimes it is the sharp crack of glass shattering on a polished kitchen floor. Sometimes it is the click of high heels coming down a hallway too fast. Sometimes it is your baby brother crying in the wrong room at the wrong time because he does not yet understand which noises make adults dangerous.
That afternoon, in the Bennett mansion, terror sounds like all three.
The glass slips from your small hand before you can stop it. It strikes the tile and explodes in a bright spray of glittering shards. Cold water fans across the white floor, carrying little crescent moons of reflected light toward the base of the cabinets. Behind you, ten-month-old Oliver startles in his walker and bursts into wailing sobs.
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