Only then did she notice my hand, cut from when I had been smashing things.
She loosened her grip on my shoulders slowly.
“Good cut,” Faye said. “I was going to teach him a lesson anyway.”
She moved with that practiced precision I knew so well.
Faye carefully lifted my hand and dabbed at the wound. When she applied iodine, she blew on it the same way she always did. She’d been in the habit of tending my injuries like that for a long time. Back when my mother beat me until my body was a raw bruise, she could only find rubbing alcohol to disinfect my wounds. Even though she doesn’t use alcohol anymore, she’s still careful not to hurt me more.
Her palm, streaked with blood, left a print across her face.
“Stop it. It’s filthy,” Faye said, tilting her head away.
She didn’t even bother to ask whether I meant the blood or her.
Instead, she called for the butler, Mr. Blackwell, and handed him the first-aid kit.
There was a pause while the room reorganized itself.
The boy’s name was Harvey Robinson. When I tried to investigate further, all traces disappeared. I realized then that Faye was protecting him.
If I hadn’t acted quickly, I might never have found out his name.