When my grandfather suddenly caught sight of the marks I had been desperate to conceal, I finally broke down and confessed that my stepmother was the one behind them. His face turned to stone, and he told me in a low voice, “Get your bags. You’re leaving with me. Tomorrow, we handle this—but we do it my way.”

Grandpa Silas positioned himself between Valerie and me just before she could snatch my wrist again.

“Get your bags,” he said. “You’re leaving with me, and tomorrow I handle her on my terms.”

I remained glued to the kitchen island, clutching my chest because taking a simple breath had suddenly turned into a conscious effort. My flannel shirt hung unbuttoned. When I raised my hand to wipe my tears, the cuff slipped down just enough to reveal the dark welts Valerie had spent days threatening me to keep covered.

Valerie took a step forward.

“Marcus put me in charge, and she isn't stepping foot outside this house.”

Grandpa didn't elevate his tone. He had spent forty years working in the steel mills of Pittsburgh, where raising your voice never cooled molten iron or made reckless men listen.

“She’s fifteen, not your captive.”