Chapter 3 - Broken Dishes and Hidden Truths
As the splint hardened around his leg, I fetched a bowl of vegetable soup and a boiled egg from my staff fridge. Noah held the spoon with rigid care, glancing up after every mouthful as if waiting for a reprimand.
"Do I have to wash the bowl?" he asked when he finished.
"No, sweetie. You rest."
"If I don't finish chores before Daddy gets home, Marcus locks the pantry," he murmured, his eyelids drooping from the mild pain medication.
"Who is Marcus?"
"Daddy’s driver," Noah whispered. "He watches me when Grandma goes to her galas. Yesterday I spilled water on the hardwood. Marcus pushed me down the stairs into the cellar. He said if I cried, Daddy would send me to boarding school forever."
Tears pricked my eyes as I smoothed his damp hair. "Where was your father?"
"Working. He told me to stop being clumsy." Noah looked at his splinted leg, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a damp, crumpled five-dollar bill. "Is this enough for the cast?"
"You don't owe me anything, Noah," I said, holding his small, cold hand. "Not a single penny."
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"My daddy says nothing is free," Noah said, closing his eyes. "He says if you cost money and don't obey, you get thrown away."
"He was wrong," I whispered. "He was entirely wrong."
