Chapter 6: Hacksaw

Shane wrapped Brynn in a blanket and carried her to the sofa in the front room.

He did it with all sixty guests watching.

He knelt beside her, white-faced, and held both her hands.

"You're safe, baby. I've got you. I'm so sorry."

Somebody in the crowd said, "What a man."

I stood in the doorway with my ribs on fire and my sleeve torn open.

The recorder was still taped under it.

Dad came in from the terrace with two men from the board.

"A contractor," he said. "I'll have his license. That railing was signed off last spring."

"By whom?" I said.

"The man who did the work."

"Dad, a bolt doesn't hop out of stone."

"Old bolts rust."

"This one didn't."

Malcolm had come in behind him.

He opened his hand.

In his palm lay one iron bolt, thick as a thumb.

The end that had sat in the stone was clean and bright.

Half the shaft had been cut straight through, and the rest was snapped off rough.

"Hacksaw," Malcolm said. "Somebody cut this most of the way. The weight did the rest."

The board members went quiet.

Dad stared at the bolt.

For a moment I thought he saw it.

"Rust and bad work," he said, and his voice shook. "That's all it is. I won't have talk of anything else in front of guests."

Shane stood up from the sofa.

"Marshall's right. It's a miracle nobody died. Don't make it into a scene, Lena. Not today."

He said my name gently, and the room tilted toward him.

"I'll keep the bolt," Malcolm said, and closed his hand.

Nobody argued.

I found Brynn alone in the pantry an hour later.

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