Chapter 4

The next morning, the tension in our small house was thick enough to cut with a knife. Crystal and Kyle acted like they owned the place, Crystal critiquing my housekeeping under her breath while Kyle ran wild.

Danny, sensing the hostility, stayed close to me, his small hand often finding mine.

Our old tabby cat, Whiskers, usually a bold creature, was hiding under the sofa, unnerved by Kyle' s aggressive energy.

I was making toast when I heard a yowl of pain from the living room, followed by Kyle' s malicious giggle.

I rushed in to see Kyle holding Whiskers by the scruff of his neck, dangling him precariously, while he poked at the terrified cat' s belly with a sharp stick he' d found in the yard.

"Kyle! Put him down!" I yelled, lunging forward.

Danny cried out, "Leave Whiskers alone!"

Crystal merely tutted from the armchair where she was flipping through a magazine. "Oh, Kyle, be gentle with the kitty."

Tom, who was on the phone, presumably trying to do damage control with his unit, just waved a dismissive hand. "He' s just playing, Sarah. Don't be so dramatic."

"Playing?" I was furious. "He's torturing him!"

I snatched the cat from Kyle' s grasp. Whiskers hissed, scratched my arm in his fear, and bolted.

Kyle looked up at me, his eyes cold and unremorseful, just like his mother' s, just like Tom' s.

"Stupid cat," he muttered.

Later, as I was trying to coax Whiskers out from under the bed, Danny started to cry softly. "Kyle is mean, Mommy. He hurt Whiskers. And he broke my snow globe."

"I know, sweetie, I know," I said, stroking his hair.

Tom strode into the bedroom, his face dark. "What's all this crying about now? Can't a man get a moment's peace in his own house?"

"Danny is upset because Kyle hurt the cat again," I said, my voice tight.

"For God's sake, Sarah, he's five years old! He's just being a kid! Danny needs to toughen up, stop being such a crybaby. You're making him soft," Tom snapped.

"He's not being a crybaby, he's showing empathy, something your... other son... clearly lacks," I retorted.

Suddenly, Danny, emboldened by my defense, pointed at Tom. "You're mean too! You let him be mean!"

Tom' s face contorted with rage. He took a step towards Danny. "Don't you dare talk to me like that, you little brat! You're embarrassing me!"

He shoved Danny, hard.

Danny stumbled back, hitting the wall, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

It happened so fast. But this time, I was ready. My phone was in my pocket, already recording audio. I fumbled it out, angling it to catch Tom' s furious face, Danny cowering.

"Don't you touch him!" I screamed, stepping between them.

Tom looked from me to Danny, then at my phone. A flicker of something – calculation? – crossed his face.

"He needs discipline, Sarah. You're too soft on him."

"Get out," I said, my voice shaking but resolute. "Get out of my house."

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "This is my house too, remember? And he's my son. I'll deal with him how I see fit."

But the recording was safe. The shove, the words, the threat. I had it.

I scooped Danny up. "We're leaving."

I took Danny straight to an urgent care clinic. The doctor confirmed a bruised arm, nothing broken, but the fear in Danny's eyes was a deeper wound. I got a copy of the medical report.

My marriage certificate. The audio and video on my phone. The doctor's report.

My evidence.

I buckled Danny into his car seat. "Sweetie, we're going on a little trip. Mommy needs to talk to some important people who can help us."

I didn't drive back to our house. I drove towards Fort Powell, the major Army post two states over where Tom often "drilled," the post where Crystal lived her fake life in on-post housing, masquerading as his legitimate wife.

It was time to burn their world to the ground.