It sounded larger than I felt.

It sounded like someone who wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

“There is no truth here,” Father said.

He reached out, his hand lunging toward the silver mesh of the microphone.

I pulled my arm back, stepping close to the edge of the glass patio table.

A plastic pitcher of iced tea wobbled and fell, spilling dark liquid and ice cubes across the stone.

The wet ice slid toward his leather shoes.

“Get inside the house,” he hissed.

His fingers caught the sleeve of my oversized cardigan.

The wool stretched, pulling tight against the thick, raised scars on my left shoulder.

I winced as the rough fabric scraped the sensitive skin.

“Let go of me,” I said, my voice echoing again.

The guests murmured, some of them stepping closer to get a better angle with their phones.

Someone in the back whispered, “Is she actually hurt?”

Chloe took a step forward from the edge of the pool.

Her blue eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open.

“Dad, what is she talking about?” Chloe asked.

“Nothing, Chloe,” Father said without looking at her.