Chapter 3: Blood on the Threshold

I froze, wanting to explain, but the words stuck like broken glass in my throat.

He wouldn’t listen, yanking open the curtains so morning light crashed in like judgment day.

Sunlight fell on my naked body—and the patch of bright red blood on the bedsheet. What I’d given him, what he thought I’d stolen.

His eyes were full of contempt—the same look the group home director gave us when we begged for seconds.

But I wasn’t the one who drugged us. The couple’s giggles, the waiter’s apology—it had all been a stupid accident. He’d made the first move, not me.

But he insisted it was my scheme.

"Emma, don’t you just want to latch onto the Miller family’s wealth? Get yourself a free ride?"

"I know you group home kids are desperate for a good life, but your methods are disgusting."

"Just looking at you makes me sick. Like looking at garbage."

He had people throw away that bed and scrub the room with so much bleach the smell burned my nose for days. He put a lock on his door—thumbprint only.

Then he left. The front door slammed so hard the windows rattled.

I wanted to follow, but pain made me curl up in my own bed, sheets rough as sandpaper against my raw skin.

He never came back—gone for two days. Phone straight to voicemail.

Mrs. Miller rushed back, filed a police report, and gave me a scolding I’ll never forget. Her Louboutins clicked on marble like a coach’s whistle in gym class—sharp, shrill, impossible to ignore.

She made me kneel at the front door, right on the cold stone threshold where anyone could see. My hands out, she struck my palms with a heavy wooden ruler—the sting as sharp as a slap from a wet towel in the locker room.

"Emma, I gave you food and shelter to watch over Nathan. What have you done? You broke the only trust I placed in you!"

The angrier she got, the harder she hit. I bit my lips to keep from crying. Blood again, but this was shame, not passion.

Nathan returned just then—with the police, and a girl in a Princeton sweatshirt who looked like she’d never had to fight for food in her life.

The girl smiled, hand outstretched, nails painted pale pink and perfect. "Mrs. Miller, hello. I’m Ashley Rivers. I used to have aphasia too. I’ve been helping Nathan with rehab since we met online."

"Nathan was upset and came to me to clear his head. Please don’t be angry. Boys will be boys, you know?"

She looked at Nathan, eyes bright like she’d just won a prize. "Say what I taught you. You’ve been practicing all morning."

Nathan’s gaze passed over me and landed on Mrs. Miller. Slowly, in a rough, awkward voice:

"Mom, I’m home."

It was the first time I’d heard Nathan speak in six years. The words came out rusty, like a door creaking open after years.

Mrs. Miller froze, the ruler falling from her hand with a clatter. Her eyes filled with tears as she invited Ashley inside. "Oh my God, come in, please come in!"

I watched them go, kneeling with blood dripping from my palms onto the white threshold, tiny crimson flowers blooming there.

Mrs. Miller was still furious. Until she allowed it, I couldn’t move. My legs went numb, pins and needles shooting up my spine.

When they turned the corner, Nathan looked back at me—indifferent.

He pressed his lips together, said nothing, and went inside with Ashley. The door closed softly.

Their shadows stretched across the curtains—a perfect family portrait, minus the bleeding hired help.

I knelt until midnight. At eleven, the sprinklers came on, misting me with cold recycled water.

When Ashley’s Uber finally left, Mrs. Miller let me up. She only said four cold words:

"Don’t let it happen again."

I nodded, knees bruised. "I understand."

Because Ashley could make Nathan speak, Mrs. Miller adored her—like the daughter she’d never had. She arranged for Ashley to transfer to our class, even made sure they sat together.

Ashley became Nathan’s new shadow—cleaner, prettier than the old one.

And Nathan let it happen.

On the way home, after AP Chemistry, he called out to me—only signing:

"Emma, can you walk home by yourself?"

"What?"

He got in the car, rolled down the window, and said:

"You always come and go with me. I’m afraid Ashley might misunderstand if she sees. From now on, walk home by yourself."

Before I could answer, the driver piped up:

"Young man, that’s not right. It’s three miles, and she’s a girl. That’s not safe."

Nathan shrugged, eyes on the floor. "She can handle it. She’s tougher than she looks. Picks up chairs to fight. She’s practically a bodyguard. Don’t worry about her. Let’s go."

The driver shot me a sympathetic look, but drove off, the Lincoln’s exhaust in my face.

That day, cramps hit hard—every step felt like a knife twist. I pressed my hand to the car window, hoping Nathan would let me in.

But he pressed the button, the window zipping up so fast it nearly caught my fingers. My desperate face reflected back at me, then gone.

The car sped away, leaving me alone at the gate.

School ended at 10:20 PM. The walk home was through dark streets and abandoned buildings. No people, all the shops closed. My sneakers slapped the wet pavement as I hurried.

As I passed an alley, hands grabbed me and yanked me into the dark.