She sipped her beer when he unwrapped the pizza, slid it into oven, set the timer.

“Okay, so you got my broken nose story. Do I get yours?”

He lifted his bottle to drink, studied her over it. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard it already.”

“I would be, too, because people tend to tell me stuff. All kinds of stuff. But what I’ve found is people around here are very careful and respectful of the Walker/Keller family. I can be, too, if you’d rather not tell me.”

“It’s not a secret. I’m surprised and kind of touched the whole thing isn’t low-hanging fruit on the gossip vine. Do you want the condensed version or the full narrative?”

“I like long stories. Details matter.”

“Well, it might take a while. To start, my father knocked my mother around as long as I can remember. Graham Bigelow. Dr. Graham Bigelow, admired, respected, prosperous, important. On the outside, he and Eliza, his wife, were perfect. They had two perfect children and lived in the Lakeview version of Stepfordville.”

“Lakeview Terrace.”

Intrigued she’d nailed it, which likely meant she saw it as he did, he nodded. “That’s the one. He was chief surgical resident at Mercy Hospital in Asheville. She played hostess, charity chairwoman, PTA president. We had a housekeeper/cook three times a week. Groundskeepers, a couple of Mercedes in the garage. Your polished upper-class family.”

“But there were undercurrents. That’s what I call them, like what was in Trent.”

“That’s a good term for it.” Idly, he picked up the baseball he’d left on the counter, rubbed the stitching. “Yeah, plenty of undercurrents. You never knew when he’d go off. Never in front of anyone, always careful where he hit. The other—we’ll use it—undercurrent, one I didn’t understand for a long time, was Eliza, my mother, liked it.”

“Oh, Zane—”

“I know what you’re going to say. I know the pathology of a battered spouse, the many reasons for not leaving, for taking on the blame. That’s not this. That’ll come clear as we go along.”

“All right.”

“I don’t remember, not clearly, the first time he hit me. I don’t mean a swat on the butt. He favored gut punches, kidney punches, the ribs. He knew just where to hit. He didn’t hit Britt, not back then. He belittled her, all of us, but that was his main abuse for her. Verbal and emotional abuse. We, Britt and I, were never, never good enough.”

“That’s a horrible way to grow up. You didn’t tell anyone?”

“He was terrifying, and they were a unit. We were afterthoughts, status symbols. Even, in a way, their beard. If he started on her at night, Britt would usually come to my room. We’d just sit there until it stopped. When it stopped, the sex started. That was almost as disturbing.

“Anyway, that was our life, the pattern of it. That changed December twenty-third, 1998.”

He laid it all out, coming home with Britt, the blood, the shouts. How he’d snapped and tried to stop Graham. The beating that followed.

“So,” he finished, “I understand getting the crap beat out of you.”

When the timer went off, he got a round platter, slid the pizza onto it. He pulled a cutter out of a drawer. “I suppose you want a plate for this.”

“I…” She had to breathe out, to breathe away the fist squeezing her heart. “I insist on a plate. In fact, I’ll get them, as I can see them through the handy glass fronts.”

“Knife and fork?”

She managed a haughty look. “Don’t insult me. How about I take the plates out back to your excellent new table? It’s a nice evening for eating outside.”

“Works for me.”

She took the plates out, gave herself a moment. She couldn’t think past the two children, living in cruelty and fear and violence. And somehow surviving it, not being dragged down by those ugly undercurrents.

He came out, sat across from her, slid a slice onto her plate.

“You have an actual pizza server. I’m impressed.”

“Well, it’s a staple around here. Do you want the rest?”

“Yes, but only if you want to tell me.”

“We got this far. They told everybody I had the flu. My grandparents were coming in from Savannah, staying with Emily. We were supposed to all have Christmas dinner—catered—at our house. But they switched that up. They wouldn’t let anybody come up to see me. Emily made me chicken soup, brought it over, but they wouldn’t let her come up. Britt told me Em really tried, but they made her leave. What could she do?”

“I’m glad. I want to say she’s about my favorite person in Lakeview. I’m glad she tried to help you, to stand for you.”

“She did more than that—that part’s coming. We went to this ski resort on Boxing Day, family tradition. He loaded me in the car, in the garage, left really early. He told the people at the resort I’d had an accident on my bike. When we got back, he told everybody I’d had an accident on the slopes.”

“Did that actually work?”

“For a while. I healed up, and I went to Dave—Micah’s dad. I asked him to teach me how to lift. I said I wanted to build myself up for baseball.”

“You wanted to get stronger.” His version of her martial arts.

“And I did. They’d decided I’d go to medical school, and I’d decided I’d apply for baseball scholarships when the time came. I wouldn’t tell them. I’d earn scholarships, save my money, get a job, whatever it took. And when I turned eighteen, I could get out. He’d never hit Britt, and she just had to get through a couple more years. I’d do whatever I could to look out for her. But he was never going to beat me like that again.”

He bit into a slice. “And, of course, when I played college ball, the Oriole scouts would be amazed at my skill and scramble to sign me on the spot.”

“I heard you had amazing skill. State, Athlete of the Year.”

“It’s all I wanted in the world. But things changed again.”

He told her about the dance, Ashley.

“Ashley Grandy? Grandy’s Grill Ashley?”

“That’s her.”

“She’s terrific.”

“First love.” He patted a hand on his heart. “It was a great night, a sweet night. Until I got home—four minutes after curfew—and he was waiting.”

Darby listened with growing horror. The viciousness, the ugliness, the desperate boy trying to protect his sister. Fighting back only to have his own mother attack and betray him.

“But, my God, how could they believe you’d attacked your family that way?”

“Because Dr. Bigelow said I did, and Eliza stood right with him and said the same.”

“No one believed you?”

“Dave did. He believed me, he stayed with me. He stayed the whole time, on the way to the hospital, in the hospital. I’ll never forget it. He called Emily. He argued with the officer, but the officer had his orders from Graham’s friend the chief.”

Shock jolted her. “Not Lee!”

“No, not Lee, he wasn’t in Lakeview back then. My arm was pretty fucked up, I’d have surgery later. But the bone doctor stabilized it. And she fought, too, but they had orders. I asked Dave to take my house key, get my notebooks from where I’d hidden them. And they hauled me to Buncombe.”