She reached her before the front wheel stopped spinning. She had a scraped palm, a red mark on one knee, and a face so startled that she had not yet decided whether to cry.
“Look at me,” she said gently. “Did you hit your head?”
She shook it. She checked her wrists and elbows, asked her to wiggle her fingers, and inspected the small scrape on her palm. Nothing appeared seriously wrong. Only then did she look at the car.
A pale silver mark ran along the black passenger door. Six inches, perhaps a little more. The pedal had dug into the paint.
“I’m sorry,” Khloe whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“Is the car broken?”
“The paint is scratched. We’ll take care of it.”
“Will we have to buy him another car?”
Despite the situation, Naomi nearly smiled. “No, Bug. We won’t have to buy another car.”
She retrieved Captain Buttons and gave her back to her. She clutched the rabbit with her uninjured hand. Naomi was reaching for the bicycle when the Harrington front door opened with a force that made the handle strike the interior wall.
Trent appeared at the top of the steps in black training pants and a fitted athletic shirt. He looked at the bike, the child, the scratch, and Naomi kneeling beside them. Her face changed before she spoke.
It was not concern for the injured girl.
It was rage at a mark on something she wanted the world to admire.
“What did you do to my car?” she shouted.
Khloe moved behind her mother.
Naomi rose slowly, placing herself between them. “She took the turn too wide. It was an accident. I’ll pay for the repair.”
But Trent was already coming down the steps, and the first person he looked at was not Naomi.
It was the little girl holding a rabbit against her chest.
Chapter 6: The Six-Inch Scratch
“You little brat.”
Trent hurled the words toward Khloe as if a nine-year-old’s mistake were a deliberate insult. She flinched so violently that her rabbit fell to the ground a second time. Naomi picked it up without bending her eyes away from the young man.
“That’s enough,” she said.
“Enough? Look at my door!”
“I’ve looked.”
“Do you even know what this paint costs?”
“I will pay for the damage. Get an estimate and bring it over.”
The answer ought to have ended the matter. Naomi had acknowledged responsibility, offered a straightforward solution, and made no attempt to minimize the scratch. But Trent had not come outside looking for a solution. He had come to be angry, and the presence of neighbors drifting onto porches gave his anger a purpose.
Mary stood by her roses. Henderson had switched off his mower. A man two houses down opened his garage and lingered where he could see. Across the driveway, the glass windows of the Harrington house reflected the afternoon light like a row of watchful eyes.
Trent turned slightly so the witnesses could see his expression. “You think you can just write a check and forget it?”
“I think a repair bill is the appropriate way to fix damaged paint.”
“Your kid was on my property.”
“By a few feet. She lost control of her bicycle.”
“Then maybe teach her how to ride.”
Naomi felt the sentence settle somewhere cold in her chest. She had spent years learning the physical difference between an insult and a threat. One could be ignored. The other sometimes required action. Trent kept drifting across that boundary, apparently delighted by how far he could go without consequence.
“Don’t speak to her again,” Naomi said.
Trent stepped closer. “Or what?”
Khloe’s breathing was audible behind Naomi’s hip. She could feel her small hand gripping her shirt. She did not move toward Trent. Instead he widened the space between them and lowered his voice.
“Or I will end this conversation, take my daughter home, and handle the car through your father. That’s what happens.”
It was not the answer Trent wanted. He shoved Naomi hard in the chest.
The movement startled several neighbors. Mary said Naomi’s name sharply. Khloe made a frightened sound. Naomi took the pressure through her feet and held her balance. She did not reach out. She did not strike back. Her shoulders barely shifted.
Naomi saw two phones rise above the hedges. In a neighborhood where the wealthy boy next door was already telling his version of events, she understood how easily a few seconds could become a different story once the recording began. She would not let Khloe watch her mother become the spectacle Trent wanted. She kept her hands open and stepped closer to her daughter instead.
