The wound was cleaned hastily and covered with bandages, and Harper was told to change her clothes and say nothing. The injury never healed properly. Days turned into weeks, and the pain grew worse instead of fading. The skin around the wound became inflamed, then infected, and fevers came and went without explanation.
One night, Harper stood outside Meredith’s bedroom door, trembling.
“I think I need a doctor,” she whispered.
“It is nothing,” Meredith replied without opening the door. “Stop pretending.”
“But it burns,” Harper said quietly.
“Do you want me to explain to your father how you damaged the house,” Meredith snapped. “Do you want him to be angry with you.”
Harper returned to her room in silence.
Months passed, and Harper learned how to move carefully, how to hide discomfort, and how to smile just enough to avoid questions. Her father noticed nothing during hurried goodbyes, distracted by phone calls and schedules.
Then Grace Turner arrived.