She glanced at her sister. “Well, maybe he’s—”

“And contagious,” Graham added, slipping an arm around Eliza’s waist. “I couldn’t let you expose yourself, especially when you’re going to be in close contact with seniors.”

She didn’t think of her parents as “seniors,” and the word just pissed her off. “We’re all healthy as horses, and he’s going to come to dinner tomorrow anyway so—”

“No, he won’t be well enough for that. He needs rest,” Graham said—serious doctor voice.

“But if you wanted to move dinner to my place—”

“Better for everyone,” Graham said cheerfully. “We’ll stop by, have dinner so your parents can see Eliza and Britt, but we won’t stay long.”

She actually felt her jaw drop. “You’re going to leave Zane alone? On Christmas?”

“He understands, and for today and most of tomorrow, he’ll sleep in any case. But we’ll be sure to add your chicken soup to his medication, and my care. I know what’s best,” Graham continued before she could object again. “I’m not only his father, I’m a doctor.”

The thought, even the thought of Zane spending Christmas alone, sick, in bed, made her ache inside. “It’s not right. Couldn’t we, I don’t know, wear masks? He’s just a kid. It’s Christmas.”

“We’re his parents.” Eliza’s tone took on an edge. “We decide. When and if you have children, you’ll decide what’s best for them.”

“Where’s Britt? At least—”

“In her room. A Christmas project.” Graham tapped his fingers to his lips. “Top secret apparently. You’ll see her tomorrow. Again, thank you so much for thinking of Zane, going to the trouble to make him soup.”

He stepped away from Eliza, put a firm arm around Emily, and turned her around, walked her back to the door in what felt like a damn frog march. “Tell Quentin and Ellen we’re looking forward to seeing them tomorrow.”

“I—I can bring his gifts over tonight so he’ll have them in the morning.”

“No need. He’s fourteen, Emily, not four. Drive safely now.”

He didn’t physically shove her out of the house, but it amounted to the same. Tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes as she walked back to her truck.

“It’s not right, it’s not right, it’s not right.”

She said it over and over as she got behind the wheel, drove out of the development.

But she was only the aunt. She could do nothing.

 

* * *

 

Zane’s alarm clock read six-forty-five. At night, he knew that much. He’d spent more than twenty-four hours locked in his room, and his face and belly hurt so bad he’d only managed some patchy sleep. The pain wouldn’t stop, and raw hunger added to it.

He’d eaten the other half of Britt’s PB&J in the early hours of the morning. Just after eight, his mother brought in dry toast and a small pitcher of water, another ice bag.

Bread and water, he thought. Prisoner food.

Because that’s just what he was.

She hadn’t said a word to him, nor had he said a word to her.

Now it was nearly seven at night, and no one had come. He worried about Britt. Was she locked in her room, too? Sometimes he—Zane wouldn’t think of the man as Dad anymore—locked them in. But only for a few hours, and they had TV or games or something to do.

He’d tried to read—they hadn’t taken his books. But it hurt too much, gave him a terrible headache. He’d dragged himself into the shower because the hurt made him sweat, and he couldn’t stand his own stink.

With the water running, his face throbbing, he’d cried like a baby.

His face looked like Rocky’s after a few rounds with Apollo Creed.

He had to get stronger. Micah’s dad lifted weights. He had a whole room in their house for them. He could ask Mr. Carter to show him how to lift. He’d say how he wanted to build himself up some before baseball season.

And in three and a half years, he could go away to college. But how could he go away to college and leave Britt?

Maybe he should go to the police, tell them everything. But the chief of police played golf with his father. Everybody in Lakeview respected Dr. Graham Bigelow.

It hurt to think about, so he thought about baseball. He held a baseball under the covers, stroking it, feeling the stitching, like a kid cuddled a teddy bear for comfort.

He heard the lock click, and with hunger gnawing like a rat at his belly, felt relief.

Until he saw his father. He saw him in the backwash of the hall light. Tall, well muscled, carrying a tray and his doctor’s bag.

Graham walked in, set the tray on the bench at the foot of the bed. He walked back to the door, flipped on the lights—God, they hurt his eyes!—shut the door behind him.

“Sit up,” Graham said briskly.

Trembling again, Zane pushed himself to sitting.

“Any dizziness?”

Be careful, Zane thought. Be respectful. “A little, yes, sir.”

“Nausea?”

“A little. Not as much as last night.”

“Have you vomited?” Graham asked as he opened his medical bag.

“Not since last night.”

Graham took out a penlight, shined it in Zane’s eyes. “Follow my finger, eyes only.”

It hurt, even that hurt, but Zane did what he was told.

“Headache?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Double vision?”

“Not anymore, no, sir.”

Graham checked his ears, his teeth. “Any blood in your urine?”

“No. No, sir.”

“You have a mild concussion. You’re lucky considering your behavior it isn’t worse. Put your head back.”

When he did, Graham pressed his fingers to either side of Zane’s nose. Pain exploded, a nova burst. Crying out, Zane tried to push the hands away. Graham reached in his bag for tools, and fear sweat coated every inch of Zane’s skin.

“Please. Please, don’t. It hurts. Dad, please.”

“Put your head back.” Graham closed a hand around Zane’s throat, squeezed lightly. “Be a man, for God’s sake.”

He screamed. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t see what his father did. Even if he’d opened his eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to see through the red mist of pain.

Tears ran. He couldn’t help them either.

When it was over, he simply curled into a shivering ball.

“You can thank me you won’t have a deviated septum. You can thank me,” Graham repeated.

Zane swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Use the ice. You’ll remain in your room until we leave for the resort on Boxing Day. You had an accident on your bike. You were careless. At the resort, you’ll remain in your room in the suite. When we return home, you’ll have had an accident while skiing. You were careless, not quite recovered from the flu, but stubborn. If you deviate from this in any way, it will go very badly for you. I will go to court and have you locked away with all the other misfits. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”