Instead, he walked—slow, deliberate—toward a rack of restored silk scarves from the 1920s. My mother’s pride. My survival.
“Please don’t touch those,” I said, panic rising.
The woman laughed. “Relax. They’re just old cloth.”
Then Owen shoved the rack.
Metal slammed into the perfume table.
Glass exploded.
Lavender and sandalwood flooded the air as fifty bottles shattered, oil soaking into silk, destroying everything in seconds.
I screamed.
Four thousand dollars. Gone.
The woman finally turned around, annoyed. “Honestly, Owen. You’re clumsy today.”
“He did it on purpose!” I cried.
She rolled her eyes and pulled out a checkbook. “How much for the junk?”
When I told her, she laughed.
“I’ll give you five hundred. Take it or leave it.”
She grabbed Owen’s arm and headed for the door.
Something inside me broke.
I ran ahead, slammed the door shut, and turned the lock.
“You’re not leaving,” I said, breath ragged. “Not until you pay for what he destroyed.”
She went pale. Then smiled.
“I’ll have you arrested.”
“Call them,” I said. “I’m done being walked over.”
People gathered outside. Phones came out.
Owen pulled free and picked up a shard of glass.
Blood ran down his hand.
My heart stopped.
Police lights flashed.