Chapter 1 - The Pointing Finger at the Dinner Table
The plates were still full when I started crying. I could smell the chicken and the warm candles on the wall, and my chair legs scraped loud against the wood floor when I pushed back from the set table. My hand was shaking so bad I could barely hold it up, but I pointed across the table at Vanessa anyway. That wasn't supposed to happen at dinner. We were supposed to sit quiet and eat.
She was at her peak right then, pretty and mad at the same time, her blonde hair pulled back tight and her gold hoops catching the light when she turned her head sharp toward me. Her dark burgundy dress didn't even wrinkle when she put both hands on the table. She looked like she owned the whole room, the painting behind her and all the plates and everything.
My name is Emma, I was five, and that night I didn't sit back down.
Dad was right next to me in his gray button-down shirt. He'd been sitting, but when I cried out he stood up so fast his wooden chair tipped back. I grabbed his arm with my other hand and pressed close to his side because my legs felt wobbly. Across the table my uncle Tyler in his dark suit just froze with his fork halfway up, watching us. Nobody was eating anymore.
I remember the light felt too warm on my face. I was breathing in little hiccups and trying not to blink. While Dad moved in front of me a little, like to block me, I let my pointing hand drop down to my light blue dress. Slow, so nobody would see. My fingers found the front pocket and slipped inside.
Inside was hard and small. I closed my fist around it and held on tight. It was still there. I hadn't lost it. My heart was thumping in my ears and I could feel Dad's shirt wrinkled under my cheek when I leaned harder into him. His breathing went slow and held.
Vanessa leaned over the table toward us. Her eyes narrowed first, then her mouth opened like she was going to say I was lying. Dad didn't back up. He put his hand on my shoulder and kept me tucked at his side and stared right back at her over the plates.
"You did it," I whispered, looking at her. My voice cracked.
She laughed a short, mean laugh. "Emma, stop that right now."
Dad said, quiet, "Let her talk."
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I wanted to pull the thing out of my pocket and show him. My fingers squeezed it so hard it hurt my palm. But I didn't. Not with her watching me like that. I just shook my head and cried harder and hid my hand deeper in the pocket.
Then Vanessa saw where my hand was. Her eyes flicked down to my dress pocket and back up to my face. All the color went out of her cheeks. Her mouth stayed open but no sound came out, and her wide eyes just stayed locked on me while Dad's hand tightened on my shoulder.
