Page 177 of A Vicious Love

Harrison nodded.

The humiliation deepened.

We cleaned the soil off the stones, collected the dead herbs, and disposed of every trace in the black bag. Harrison took a photo for comparison. We were about to leave when Harrison stopped near the side door.

“Disaster room,” he said.

I closed my eyes.

“No.”

“We have to check.”

“No, we don’t.”

He looked toward the dark house. “Yes, we do.”

The disaster room was Emmie’s sun room.

In theory, it was beautiful. Marcel had built it for her on the east side of the house where morning light came in through tall arched windows. In practice, it was where hobbies went to die.

Emmie had the attention span of a goldfish and the imagination of a woman who watched one Veil tutorial and immediately believed she could master any craft by Thursday.

She bought supplies. Started, then she got bored, upset by a difficult instruction, or lured away by old films and Marcel’s lap. After that, the unfinished hobby sat in the sun room until the shame of it made her avoid the room.

Once Emmie avoided the room, she became sad, and Marcel became dangerous.

So Harrison and I had created a limit. Eight unfinished hobbies. At nine, intervention.

I followed Harrison into the house through the side entrance because apparently my night had more suffering scheduled.

We entered the room.

The things I had finished in this room would destroy my reputation if Harlan ever found out.

There were men alive only because they feared me. That was not an exaggeration. Harlan ran on reputation as much as blood.

If those same men found out I had once glued tiny pearls onto a handmade picture frame at two in the morning because Emmie wanted it to look “vintage but hopeful,” the balance of power would shift.

Harrison picked up an embroidery hoop on the table.

I pointed at him. “Put that down.”

He lifted a brow. “You said that about the knitting.”

My eyes narrowed on him.

We did not speak of the knitting.

There were rules in this family. Some were written in the dead stare one brother gave another when a forbidden topic crossed the room. The knitting was one of those rules. I stared at him until his smile faded.

“The week your hand broke,” I said, “was very convenient.”

“I broke it in a fight.”

“You broke it three hours after we agreed to come

back to finish the blanket.”