You whip around immediately and lift him into your arms before his wheels can roll toward the glass.
“Oh no,” you whisper into his fine, warm hair. “Oh no, oh no.”
Your heart starts pounding so hard it feels like a second creature trapped inside your chest. Since your mother died bringing Oliver into the world, you have become the kind of child who listens for danger first and breathes second. At eight years old, you know which doors groan, which floors creak, which voices sharpen before they strike.
And you know Caroline Bennett will hear this.
“Lily!”
The voice slices down the hallway like something metal.
You flinch before you even see her. Then she appears in the kitchen doorway, tall and elegant and perfectly arranged, the kind of beauty that belongs on glossy magazine covers until you look directly into the eyes. She wears cream slacks, a silk blouse, and a face full of fury so practiced it seems almost casual.
“What have you done now?”
You kneel quickly, clutching Oliver to one side while reaching for the larger pieces of glass with your free hand. Your fingers shake. The baby sobs harder, startled by your fear as much as by the noise.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’ll clean it up.”
A shard nicks your palm. Bright red beads onto your skin and drops onto the tile.
Caroline’s mouth twists. “Of course. Useless and clumsy. Just like always.”
You keep your head down, because eye contact sometimes makes it worse. That is another thing you have learned since she married your father nine months ago, just four months after your mother’s funeral. There are people who enjoy obedience and people who enjoy fear, and your stepmother belongs to the second group.
Oliver reaches for your necklace chain with his little hand, hiccupping around his cries. You bounce him gently even as your cut stings.
“Please,” you say. “I can fix it.”
Caroline steps closer, looks at the blood on the floor, and gives a short disgusted laugh. “No. You always make things uglier when you touch them.”
Then she reaches down, snatches the dishtowel from the oven handle, and throws it at you. It lands across your shoulder and Oliver’s knees.
“Clean it,” she snaps. “And keep that brat quiet.”
You want to say he is not a brat. He is your brother. He is the last piece of your mother left breathing in this house. But experience has taught you that defending Oliver only paints a bigger target on both of you. So you nod, blinking back tears, and start wiping water with one hand while holding him tight with the other.
Caroline watches for a moment.
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