LITMIR.BIZ

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phone still clutched to her ear. She opened the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and a light sweater.

      “Honey,” Melanie said, fighting to keep panic out of her own voice, “you have to calm yourself. You have to tell me what happened. What about Boyd?”

      For several moments, Mia was quiet save for her very audible struggle for control. Then she spoke, her voice a tinny whisper. “He flew into a rage. He said … he—” Her voice rose. “I’m afraid, Mellie. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to!”

      Melanie glanced at her watch, calculating. “Where are you?”

      “Home. I … I locked myself in the bathroom, I thought … I thought he was going to break down the door!”

      Propping the phone to her ear with her shoulder, Melanie shimmied into her jeans. “Is he there now?”

      “No … at least I … I don’t think so.”

      “Good.” Melanie got the jeans fastened, then tore off her nightgown and went in search of her bra. “I want you to stay put,” she ordered, finding the undergarment and fitting it on. “Do not leave the bathroom. Do you understand?”

      Mia murmured that she did, and Melanie nodded. “I’m coming right over.”

      “But Ca … Casey, you can’t—”

      “It’s spring break, Stan took him to Walt Disney World yesterday.” Melanie hooked the bra and yanked the sweater over her head. “I’m leaving now. Promise me you won’t leave the bathroom.”

      When Mia had, Melanie hung up the phone, slipped into shoes and raced for the door. She stopped halfway there and went back for her gun. She wasn’t about to take any chances, she thought, and strapped on the weapon. If Boyd was as out of control as Mia said, he could be capable of anything.

      Twenty minutes later, Melanie wheeled her car to a stop in her sister’s driveway. Jumping out, she ran for the front door. She tried it and found it unlocked. Heart hammering, she eased it open and stepped inside the dark house, unsheathing her weapon as she did.

      “Boyd?” she called. “Mia? It’s me, Melanie.”

      No one answered. She flipped on a light and gasped. It looked as if her brother-in-law had gone on a rampage. Chairs were overturned, lamps and knickknacks had been swept to the floor and broken.

      “Mia!” she called again, this time sounding as panicked as she felt. Forgetting caution, she raced toward the back of the house and Mia and Boyd’s bedroom. She reached the bedroom, then the master bath. She tried the knob; the door was locked. She pounded. “Mia! It’s me! Open up!”

      From inside she heard a cry, then something clatter to the floor. A moment later the bathroom door flew open and Mia fell into her arms.

      “Melanie!” she cried. “Thank God! I was so scared!”

      Melanie held her sister tightly, frightened by the way she trembled, by how small and fragile she felt in her arms. “It’s okay, I’m here now. I’m not going to let Boyd or anybody else hurt you. I promise.”

      As the words slipped past her lips, Melanie realized she had uttered nearly the same ones when they were children, too many times to count. Her head filled with memories she would rather forget, of moments spent holding and comforting Mia, just as she was now. Of the times she had raced to her sister’s rescue. Of the first time, only hours after their mother’s funeral.

      She squeezed her eyes shut against the ugly memories, against the way they hurt. That day Mia had become their father’s favorite target, though Melanie had never understood why. Like an animal in the wild that turns on one of its own litter, he had done his best to destroy Mia. He would have, if not for Melanie. And Ashley. As often as they could, they had closed ranks, thus diverting his rage onto themselves.

      And at thirteen, when his verbal and physical abuse of Mia had become sexual, Melanie had threatened his life. He had awakened from a deep sleep to find his arms and legs restrained by ropes and his firstborn twin holding one of his hunting knives to his throat. If he touched Mia like that again, Melanie had promised, she would kill him.

      Melanie had meant what she said—he must have believed she did, too, because the sexual abuse had stopped.

      Melanie tightened her arms around her sister, aching for her. Why Mia? she wondered. The most defenseless, most sensitive of the three of them? And now, why this? Why couldn’t her sister have the love she deserved?

      Why couldn’t any of them?

      Melanie drew away from her twin, holding her at arm’s length, meeting her gaze evenly. “Did he touch you?”

      Mia shook her head, struggling, Melanie saw, to find her voice. “I didn’t give him the chance. He went crazy and I grabbed the portable phone and ran. I locked myself in here … he tried to kick in the door … I thought he would. Then he just … stopped.”

      She drew in a shuddering breath. “I imagined him hiding out there, trying to trick me into coming out. I imagined him getting his gun—”

      “He has a gun?”

      Mia blanched. “He … I … I don’t know … I meant, I imagined him getting a gun. I was so afraid, Mellie!”

      Melanie glanced at the bathroom door. The white paint was marred by ugly, black heel marks. She turned back to her sister. “Have you called the police?”

      “What?”

      “The police. Have you called them?” “No, I—”

      “That’s okay. We can do it now. I’ll get the phone.” She retrieved it from the bathroom floor and brought it to Mia. She held it out.

      Mia shrank back and Melanie frowned. “You have to do this, Mia. You have to protect yourself. You have to stop him.”

      “I can’t.”

      “Mia—”

      “I couldn’t bear for everyone to know!” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m so ashamed.”

      Melanie put the phone aside and took her sister’s hands away from her face. They were cold, trembling. “Look at me, Mia. You have nothing to be ashamed of. He’s the one who’ll be embarrassed by this. He’s the one who—”

      “He’ll get off. You know he will. He’ll deny the whole thing, and everyone will believe him. I’ll be labeled the pathetic, attention-starved wife.”

      “You have proof. Look at this place, the heel marks, the—” Even as she said the words, she knew that her sister had little beside bruises that were nearly two weeks old. Not even a 911 call.

      “You see that I’m right, don’t you?” Mia shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It’ll be my word against his. Who do you think everyone will believe?”

      Melanie had faced a similar prejudice when she left Stan, though he had never physically abused her. It had infuriated her then, it did now. She was sick and tired of a system that allowed the rich and powerful to run roughshod over those more vulnerable. They should be held accountable. Someone should make them pay.

      Mia hung her head. “It’s my fault. I questioned him about where he was going. I should have known better. I should have left well enough alone.”

      “Don’t do that, Mia. That’s a victim talking. It’s bullshit.” Melanie caught Mia’s shoulders and shook her lightly. “He’s your husband. You had every reason, every right, to question him.”

      “But I—”

      “No! You will not become a victim. I will not allow it, do you hear me? You’ve come too far.” She shook her again, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You have to leave him, Mia. You have to. It’s the only way.”

      Mia started to cry again, nodding her head.

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