had been drummed into him by the instructors at the military academy.
The masked man was tall, but not lanky. He was older, probably in his late forties. There was a pronounced curve to his shoulders. His belly was softer. He had a tattoo on his biceps, an anchor with words Claire could not read but obviously signified that he’d been in the US Navy.
Paul’s father had been in the Navy.
Slowly, deliberately, the masked man took one step, then another, toward Julia.
Claire told Lydia, “I’m going to go outside.”
Lydia nodded, but didn’t look back.
“I can’t stay in here, but I’m not leaving you.”
“Okay.” Lydia was transfixed by the television. “Go.”
Claire pushed away from the wall and walked into the kitchen. She stepped over spilled cutlery and broken glass and kept walking until she was outside. The cold air pinched her skin. Her lungs flinched at the sudden chill.
Claire sat on the back steps. She hugged her arms to her body. She was shaking from the cold. Her teeth hurt. The tips of her ears burned. She had not seen the worst of the video, but she had seen enough, and she knew that her father was right. All of her happy memories of Julia—dancing with her to American Bandstand in front of the TV every Saturday, singing with her in the car as they drove to the library to pick up Helen, skipping along behind Sam and Lydia as they all went to the campus clinic to see a new batch of puppies—that was all gone.
Now, when she thought of Julia, the only image that came to mind was that of her sister spread against that rough-sawn wall in a stall where animals were kept.
Inside the house, Lydia called out a strangled cry.
The sound was piercing, like a sliver of glass slicing open Claire’s heart. She dropped her head into her hands. She felt hot, but her body would not stop trembling. Her heart shuddered inside her chest.
Lydia began to wail.
Claire heard an anguished sob come from her own mouth. She covered her ears with her hands. She couldn’t stand the sound of Lydia’s keening. They were two rooms apart, but Claire could see everything that Lydia had seen: the machete swinging up, the blade coming down, the blood flowing, the convulsions, the rape.
Claire should go back inside. She should be there for Lydia. She should bear witness to the last few seconds of Julia’s life. She should do something other than sit uselessly on the back porch, but she could not force herself to move.
She could only look out at the vast, empty field and scream— for her murdered sister, her exiled sister, her fractured mother, her shattered father, her decimated family.
Claire was overcome with grief, but still she screamed. She fell to her knees. Something broke open inside her throat. Blood filled her mouth. She slammed her fists into the dry red clay and cursed Paul for everything he’d taken away from her: holding Lydia’s baby, maybe carrying her own, watching her parents grow old together, sharing her own life with the only sister she had left. She raged against her scam of a marriage—the eighteen years she’d wasted loving a sick, twisted madman who had tricked Claire into thinking she had everything she wanted when really, she had nothing at all.
Lydia’s arms wrapped around her. She was crying so hard that her words stuttered. “S-she was … s-so … s-scared …”
“I know.” Claire grabbed onto her sister. Why had she ever believed Paul? How had she ever let Lydia go? “It’s okay,” she lied. “Everything is going to be okay.”
“S-she was terrified.”
Claire squeezed her eyes shut, praying the images would leave.
“A-all alone. S-she was all alone.”
Claire rocked Lydia like a baby. They were both shaking so hard they could barely hold on. The devastation of what they’d been through opened like a blister.
“S-she knew what was coming and s-she couldn’t move and there was no one to—” Her words were cut off by a strangled cry. “Oh, God! Oh, God!”
“I’m sorry,” Claire whispered. Her voice was hoarse. She could barely speak. Lydia was trembling uncontrollably. Her skin felt cold. Every breath rattled in her lungs. Her heart was pounding so hard that Claire could feel it against her own chest.
“My God,” Lydia cried. “My God.”
“I’m sorry.” This was all Claire’s fault. She should’ve never called Lydia. She had no right to bring her into this. She was selfish and cruel and deserved to be alone for the rest