The Price of Blood and the Cost of Standing Alone Against Family
I stared at the screen as another message appeared right beneath it.
*Do not make a mistake you cannot undo.*
My grip tightened on the edge of the desk as the office phone on my wall began to ring, the sharp, shrill sound piercing the quiet room.
I stared at the ringing wall phone, the red light blinking in the darkness of my office.
I let it ring five times before I reached out and lifted the receiver.
“Elizabeth,” Uncle Michael’s voice said, dry and devoid of warmth.
“It is three in the morning, Michael,” I said, my voice flat.
“You made a grave error tonight,” he said.
“Patricia assaulted me in my own home,” I replied, my fingers tightening on the plastic handset.
“She has a cut on her forehead and bruises on her wrists, Elizabeth.”
“From when I had to defend myself,” I said.
“That is not how the police will see it, and that is not how the board will see it,” he said, then the line went dead.
I stood there in the quiet office, the dial tone buzzing in my ear.