Chapter 2 - COLD ANGER
Greg followed us into the home office, shutting the door behind him to muffle the bass vibrating from the living room. The study was the one room in the house that still felt entirely ours—bookshelves lined with heavy legal thrillers, a worn leather armchair, and framed photos of our blended family on the oak desk.
"Nora, you're white as a sheet," Greg said, coming toward us. "What happened? Did somebody get hurt?"
"Show your father your arm, June," I said.
June hesitated, glancing at the floor, before lifting the sleeve of her lavender dress.
Greg leaned down, his brow furrowing as he inspected the pink, fingermark bruises on his daughter's arm. His face went through a rapid sequence of expressions: confusion, concern, and then a dark, dangerous comprehension.
"Where did this come from?" Greg’s voice dropped low. "Did one of the older kids push you?"
"No," June whispered. "Grandma."
Greg went entirely still. He remained crouched on the floor, his hand resting on June’s knee, but his posture went rigid. "What do you mean, Grandma?"
I stepped in, unable to keep the ice out of my tone. "Janet dragged her out of the dining room, Greg. She took June’s plate away, pulled her out of her chair, pushed her down the hallway, and locked her in the utility pantry."
"Locked her?" Greg looked up at me, his eyes wide.
"She shut the door and told her to stay there," I corrected sharply. "And do you want to know why? Because according to your mother, June didn't belong at the table with your 'real' children."
Greg stood up slowly. He was six-foot-two, a former college athlete who usually moved with a relaxed, easy grace. Right now, every muscle in his shoulders was coiled like a compressed steel spring.
"She said that?" Greg asked, looking back down at June. "June, did Grandma use those words?"
June nodded, her lower lip trembling. "She said Amber and Mason were your real kids because they came first. And she said I needed to learn that everything isn't about me. She told me to stay in the dark room until the party was over."
Greg turned his back to us for three long seconds. He placed both hands on the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning stark white as he leaned his weight into the wood. I could hear his breath—slow, deep, controlled breathing designed to stop him from putting his fist through the drywall.
When he turned back around, the warmth that usually defined his face was entirely gone.
"Stay here with her," Greg said softly.
"What are you going to do?" I asked, stepping toward him. "Greg, your entire family is out there. Your dad, your brother, Mindy’s sister—half the neighborhood."
"I know who's out there," Greg replied. His voice was unnaturally calm, a flat, terrifying quiet that I had only heard a handful of times in our ten years together. "And they're all about to find out exactly what kind of woman my mother is."
"She’s going to lie," I warned, reaching out to touch his arm. "You know how she operates. She’ll turn it around. She’ll say June misunderstood, or that she was just trying to organize the seating, or that I’m making a scene because I've always been jealous of Mindy's kids."
"Let her try," Greg said.
He picked up June in one arm, settling her against his hip. June wrapped her small arms around his neck, burying her face in the collar of his shirt.
"Greg," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. "Are we doing this right now? In front of everyone?"
"There is no 'later' for this, Nora," Greg said, looking me straight in the eye. "If I wait until the guests leave, she’ll spin it. She’ll call my father, she’ll call my brother, she’ll turn it into a private family dispute where everyone plays mediator. She hit my daughter. She hid my daughter in a closet. This ends today."
He opened the study door and walked out into the hallway. I took a deep breath, adjusted my blouse, and followed him into the lions' den.
The living room was still buzzing. Greg’s brother, Mark, was telling a story by the fireplace, holding a fresh beer. Janet was sitting on the edge of the cream-colored sofa, holding a porcelain cup of coffee, surrounded by two of her friends from the local garden club.
Greg walked directly into the center of the open-concept living area, right between the kitchen island and the formal dining space.
He didn't yell. He didn't slam anything down.
He walked over to the dining table, picked up a silver dessert fork, and tapped it three times against the side of a water goblet.
Cling. Cling. Cling.
The sharp, metallic sound cut through the ambient noise of the room. A few people turned around, smiling, expecting a birthday toast. Mark paused his story. The music on the Bluetooth speaker was still playing softly in the background—some acoustic guitar track.
"Can I have everyone's attention for a moment, please?" Greg announced, his voice carrying easily across the thirty-foot room.
Janet smiled gracefully, setting her coffee cup down on the saucer. "Oh, Greg, darling, you don't need to make a speech yet! We haven't even cut the cake!"
"This isn't about the cake, Mom," Greg said.
He set June down on her feet, keeping one firm, protective hand resting on her small shoulder.
The smile on Janet’s face didn't vanish immediately, but it faltered around the edges—a subtle tightening of her mouth, a sudden, sharp intensity in her pale eyes as she took in the scene: Greg, me standing right behind him, and June holding onto his jeans leg.
"I want to clear something up for everyone here today," Greg continued, his tone loud enough that the adults talking out on the patio started drifting inside through the open glass doors to see what was happening. "Because apparently, there’s some confusion in this family about who belongs in this house."
A quiet fell over the room. The casual, festive atmosphere began to evaporate, replaced by a sudden, heavy tension.
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"Greg?" his father, Richard, stepped forward, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about my mother," Greg said, looking directly at Janet. "And what she just did to my seven-year-old daughter."
