He Told Me to Hide the Bruises—So I Set the Table

Daniel shoved the open makeup bag into my hands so hard that the bottles rattled against the zipper.

“Cover it. She’s already here.”

I stepped backward, but he followed until the dining-room wall stopped me.

My ribs protested when I inhaled.

The bruise beneath my left eye had darkened overnight. Finger-shaped marks circled my upper arm, still visible above the lace edge of my silver-gray slip.

Daniel gripped my wrist.

With his other hand, he lifted a tube of concealer toward my face.

I turned away.

His fingers tightened.

Then his mother entered.

Vivian Cole walked into my dining room wearing a cream skirt suit, pearls, and the satisfied smile of a woman arriving to inspect work she had commissioned.

She placed her handbag beside the table and studied my injuries.

There was no concern in her eyes.

“At least make yourself presentable.”

My trembling stopped.

I looked at the makeup in Daniel’s hand, then at Vivian.

“You both think this is lunch?”

Daniel released me abruptly.

He snatched the bag and slammed it onto the polished table.

Water glasses jumped. Powder containers struck one another inside the case.

“Don’t embarrass me.”

I reached slowly into the bag.

My fingers passed beneath the brushes and closed around the small black recorder I had hidden there that morning.