Preparing Leo

Violent. The word didn't fit the gleaming stainless steel of my kitchen, or the soft wool of my cardigan, but it was exactly what Arthur needed it to be. I didn't flinch, even as the older officer’s hand drifted toward his radio. I simply exhaled, a long, tired sound of a sister weary of her brothers' shadows.

"The Judge is a man who deals in extremes, Officer," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline-fueled fire in my veins. "He sees a woman questioning her medication and calls it a crisis. He sees a sister standing up for her own autonomy and calls it violence. I’m an architect. I build things. I don't break them."

The officers eventually retreated, the strobing lights of their cruiser fading into a dull, gray pulse before vanishing down the driveway. I didn't celebrate the win. I watched them go from the window, knowing Harrison was already recalculating the dosage of his next move.

I turned and found Leo standing at the top of the stairs. He looked smaller than fifteen, his face a pale moon against the dark wood of the banister. He had heard everything. The wellness check. The mention of his father. The word 'violent.'

"Leo, come down here," I said, moving to the bottom of the stairs. "We need to talk."

I sat him at the kitchen island, the space where we’d shared a thousand mundane breakfasts. I looked at him—the tilt of his head, the way he chewed his lip—and saw so much of Sarah in him. I couldn't tell him his father was a murderer, not yet, but I couldn't let him walk into Harrison’s trap blind.

"Things are going to get ugly, Leo," I started, reaching across the granite to take his hand. His skin was cold. "Your dad and Uncle Arthur... they want me to leave. They want to put me in a facility. They’re going to say things about me that aren't true. They're going to try to convince you that I'm not safe."

Leo pulled his hand away, but not in anger. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving with a frantic, habitual speed.

"I know what they're like, Aunt El," he whispered. "You think I haven't noticed? The way he looks at you? The way he talks to me when you're not in the room?"

He tapped the screen, opening a voice memo app. "I started recording him weeks ago. Just so I wouldn't think I was the one going crazy."

He set the phone on the granite and pressed play. The kitchen was suddenly filled with the sound of a heavy door slamming, followed by Harrison’s voice—not the calm, clinical doctor, but a man possessed by a terrifying, high-pitched rage.

Leo played the audio. Harrison sounded completely unhinged.