13
MARY
“I don’t believe a word you say.” His face turned mottle red and he used the back of his hand to wipe spittle from his chin.
“You should,” Mr. Benson said, stepping into the room.
I turned to face him, my skirts whipping about my ankles.
“Benson! Have you heard such lies?” my father asked.
Mr. Benson eyed me shrewdly. The dark anger was still there, in his eyes, the tenseness of his jaw, in every line of his body. I also saw the cunning he’d hidden so well before. Gone was any artifice of caring or concern, for myself or my father.
He closed the door behind him, turned the lock with a loud snick. I took a step back, knowing that the man was unhinged and I was truly in danger. My father hadn’t realized it yet.
“Actually, Gregory, your daughter is very astute. The Beauty Bell
