SUNDAY EVENING
The tension between Robin and Grant was subtle but palpable. I first noticed the shift in the air when Grant returned from the kitchen carrying a plate of bacon-wrapped scallops, still sizzling from the grill. His face was flushed from leaning over the glowing coals, or a few too many beers, or maybe something else entirely.
‘Where have you been?’ Robin questioned.
As Grant set the serving platter down, he seemed jumpy at the sound of her brisk tone. I couldn’t be the only one who noticed it, but Owen seemed oblivious and Lily was nowhere in sight.
‘Making these, like you asked,’ he answered.
‘Oh. Okay.’
The mood tamed, though subsequent conversation felt curiously stilted.
‘You okay, Robin?’ I asked. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t admit it. Not in front of Owen, at least. She’d never really taken to him, though I couldn’t understand why. She claimed it was because he was possessive and controlling – the same two adjectives tossed back and forth, but did anyone really know what they meant? My husband liked to spend time with me. Why make such a fuss about it? Why turn it into something so villainous? And yet sometimes it felt wrong to me too. One morning I’d wake up adoring him. Another morning I’d wake up abhorring him. It was marital Stockholm syndrome.
‘Sure. I think I’m just getting tired. Wine does that to me.’ She grinned but I could tell it was fake.
‘Maybe it’s time we head home, huh, Owen?’ I glanced at him, expecting a fervent yes. He’d been ready to leave the dinner party the moment he chewed his last bite of orange duck with au gratin potatoes and grilled asparagus. Privately he’d confided to me he thought dinner tasted like warmed-over shit. His sour mood alone was already giving me a headache, which wouldn’t be enough of an excuse to avoid his drunken, grabby hands tonight.
‘I’m ready when you are,’ he said, getting up with a little groan. ‘Dinner was superb, Robin,’ he added unctuously.
I knew it was bullshit. We all tasted the same overcooked meat and burned veggies.
‘Glad you enjoyed it, Owen. You don’t want to stay for coffee or tea?’ Robin held up a rose gold carafe that she’d just carried out with a cute matching sugar and cream set. Only Robin would place such importance on the presentation details for coffee.
‘That sounds tempting, Rob,’ I said, ‘but we’ve got an early morning tomorrow – school and work and all. I’ll go get Aria.’
Thick wool carpet muted the sound of my footsteps as I descended into the basement where the stairs led into an open-floor games room. Wood paneling insulated the space, giving it a cozy warmth. As my feet hit the bottom step, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, but it couldn’t be what my eyes were transmitting to my brain.
It just couldn’t be.
My innocent daughter, sprawled out on the floor with Ryan thrusting away on top of her. His jeans hung below his bare butt. My baby’s shirt was pulled up and her bra undone, exposing her budding breasts. She still had her underwear on, but just barely. She looked totally wasted.
‘Aria?’ I asked, my voice barely audible.
They hadn’t heard me.
‘Aria!’ My voice returned with force, startling Ryan upright. ‘Get the hell off of my daughter!’ I screamed, crossing the room.
Ryan rolled off Aria, a genuine look of fear and panic in his eyes as he hurriedly pulled his pants up. ‘Mrs Fischer, I—’
‘Shut up! You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on your ass.’
‘Mom? What’re you doin’?’ Aria sat up, gazing around the room dazedly. Her eyes alighted on Ryan, who hung his head remorsefully. Looking down, she pulled her shirt across her exposed chest.
I couldn’t bear to look at my little girl, or whatever she was now. I yanked an afghan off the back of the sofa and tossed it to her. She covered herself and began rearranging her clothes.
‘Were you drinking?’ I demanded.
‘No …’ she lied, giggling self-consciously.
‘It’s all my fault,’ Ryan pleaded. ‘Please don’t blame Aria. I’m the one who got the wine out—’
I silenced him with a glare, then turned it on my daughter. ‘I can’t believe you, Aria. Your father is going to tan your hide good and … I don’t even know what he’ll do. Ground you for life, if you’re lucky.’ Then I aimed a shaking finger at Ryan. ‘And you, you piece of shit, never touch my daughter again or I’ll set Owen on you. And I assure you, boy, once he’s done with you, there won’t be anything left to bury.’
Hauling Aria up the stairs, her one arm limp around my neck, the other clinging to the railing, I wondered what exactly had happened. She was clearly too intoxicated to know what she was doing. Had Ryan plied Aria with alcohol, then taken advantage of her? Would Aria even remember anything tomorrow?
If I told Owen, God knows what he’d do to Ryan – nothing he didn’t deserve, though. He’d want to kill the boy. Hell, I’d probably help him. But the last thing Aria needed was a circus erupting over this. Maybe she had consented, even though technically she wasn’t over the age of consent. Though I couldn’t wrap logic around that. As far as I knew, Aria had never even kissed a boy. She certainly wouldn’t indiscriminately sleep with one.
As I reached the top step, the growing headache sliced through my temples, as if my brains were tumbling around inside my skull. Too many jumbled thoughts. Too many scenarios to sort through. I just hoped my baby girl would still be my baby girl come morning.