Though Zane kept his eyes closed, he knew Graham loomed over the bed, tall, golden, smirking.

“Next week, you’ll write to your grandparents thanking them for whatever gifts they had the poor judgment to buy you. Those gifts will be donated to charity. The gifts your mother and I selected for you will be returned. You deserve nothing, so nothing is what you’ll receive. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. Please go away.

“Your computer will be returned for schoolwork only. I will check it nightly. If in a month’s time you’ve shown proper remorse, if your grades don’t suffer, if in my judgment you’ve learned a valuable lesson, the rest of your things will be returned. If not, they, too, will be donated to someone more worthy. If not, I’ll rescind my permission for you to play baseball, not only this coming season but ever again.

“Do you understand?”

Hate. Zane hadn’t known he could feel so much hate. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be looking into military academies as an alternative for your education if you don’t straighten up. Your aunt sent the soup. Be sure to thank her for it when—and if—you see her again.”

At last, at last, he left, locking the door behind him.

Zane stayed as he was until he thought he could ride over the waves of pain. He’d known his father could be mean, could be violent, that he could slide on the mask of the perfect husband, father, neighbor over what was under it all.

But he hadn’t known, or hadn’t accepted until that moment, his father was a monster.

“I’ll never call him Dad again,” Zane vowed. “Not ever.”

He made himself get up, sit on the bench at the foot of the bed. He picked up the bowl of soup.

Cold, he noted. Just one more piece of mean.

But you lose, you fucking bastard, he thought as he ate. I’ve never tasted anything better in my whole life.

When he felt steadier, he took another shower since he’d sweated through his T-shirt. He made himself walk around the room, walk and walk. Getting stronger had to start sometime. He wished he had another bowl of soup, but settled for icing his face.

He heard Christmas music drifting up from downstairs, walked to the window. He looked out over the lake, saw the lights glimmering on the other side. He could pick out his aunt’s house, thought of her and his grandparents celebrating Christmas Eve. Did they think about him?

He hoped they did. Sick with the flu, and isn’t that a shame?

But they didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t know. And what would they, could they do if they did? Nothing against a man like his father. If Dr. Graham Bigelow said his son fell off his bike or hurt himself skiing, everyone would believe it. No one would believe a man like that would beat on his own son.

And if he tried to make them, what would they do anyway?

He couldn’t go to military school. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t leave Britt.

So he needed to pretend, just like his parents pretended. He’d pretend he’d learned a valuable lesson. He’d say yes, sir. He’d keep his grades up. He’d do everything he had to do.

One day he’d be strong enough or old enough or brave enough to stop pretending.

Still, who’d believe him? Maybe his aunt would. Maybe. He didn’t think she liked his father very much—or his mother either. He knew they didn’t like her, because they said stuff about her all the time.

How she’d never amounted to much, how she couldn’t even keep a husband. And lots of stuff.

He heard the piano, felt some relief. Britt was okay if she could play the piano.

Maybe he could get proof. He could get Micah to show him how to set up like a hidden camera or something. No, no, he couldn’t pull Micah into it. If Micah told his parents, they might say something to his parents.

No baseball, ever, military school, another beating.

Not brave enough.

But he could write it all down.

Inspired, he went to his desk, found a notebook, pens, pencils. Not yet, he decided. One of them might come in again before they went to bed. If they caught him, jig up.

So he waited, waited, lay in the dark with his baseball for comfort and company.

He heard his father call out: “Sweet Christmas dreams, Britt!”

And she called back. “Good night.”

Moments later he heard her whisper at his door, “I couldn’t sneak in. I’m sorry. I heard you yelling, but—”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Go to bed before they catch you.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He heard her door close. He slipped into sleep for a while. His mother’s laughter woke him. Coming upstairs, muffled words as they moved past his door. Staying where he was, eyes closed, breathing even, because he couldn’t trust them.

And he was proved right when a few minutes later the lock clicked. The light from the hall reddened the back of his eyes. He kept them closed, but not tight—that’s how they knew you faked it.

Even after the door shut again, the lock clicked again, he waited. One minute, two, five—he counted it off.

When he felt safe, he crept over to his desk, got the notebook, a couple of pens. Just in case, he took them and the little flashlight Britt had left him back to his bed.

If he heard the lock click, he’d have enough time to shove everything under the blanket, lie down again.

In the little beam of light, he began to write.

Maybe nobody will believe me. He says they won’t. He’s too important, too smart, so they won’t believe me, but my English teacher says that writing things down can help you think and to remember stuff. I need to remember.

On December 23, 1998, when my sister Britt and me—and I—he corrected—came home from school, my mother was on the floor. My father was hitting her again and when I tried to stop him he hurt me really bad.

 

He wrote for more than an hour.

When he grew too tired to write more, he got a coin from his bank, used it to unscrew the air vent. He hid the notebook inside. Put the pens away even though he’d run one out of ink.

Then he crawled back into bed, and slept.

CHAPTER THREE

 

Zane followed orders. The pain eased; the bruises faded. No one at the resort questioned Dr. Bigelow’s bike accident explanation, or his orders for Zane to remain undisturbed in his room during their stay. No one in Lakeview questioned Dr. Bigelow’s skiing mishap explanation.

Well, Emily sort of did, wondering why Zane had been allowed to ski when he’d been recovering from the flu, but it didn’t change anything.

Life went on.

If he’d learned a valuable lesson, it was to be careful.

He kept his room clean and tidy without prodding, did his chores without a murmur of protest. He studied, more out of fear than interest. If his grades dropped, he’d face punishment. If his grades dropped, he’d lose baseball. Baseball became not only his passion, his life’s dream, but his future escape.

When he signed with the majors, he’d leave Lakeview and never look back.

Everyone acted as if December 23 never happened. Everyone inside the house in Lakeview Terrace lived the lie. He passed his father’s tests—he was smart enough to know they were tests. The quick shoves or sharp slaps for no reason—and the satisfied look on his father’s face when Zane kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing.