Eleanor read that line once and then again more slowly, not because it surprised her, but because sometimes cruelty becomes unforgettable precisely when it is casual.
Her brother, Daniel Vance, eventually came to see her despite her request for distance. He arrived without warning one Sunday morning carrying pastries the boys were too excited to receive suspiciously.
Daniel had always been the easier of the Vance children to love and the harder to manage. Where Eleanor turned inward under pressure, Daniel expanded. He was broad-shouldered, impatient, generous, occasionally reckless, and still angry at the world for every grief their family had swallowed quietly. He adored the boys instantly and completely, letting them climb him like furniture while pretending great injury.
Only after they were outside trying to teach him the rules of an invented game involving pinecones did he come back into the kitchen and lean against the counter.
“You should have told me.”
“No.”
His jaw flexed. “He put his hands on you?”
She looked up sharply. “No.”
“Threatened you?”
“Yes, in the way men like him threaten. With systems.”
Daniel’s stare sharpened. “That’s almost worse.”