He forced my palm toward the open grate.
For a fraction of a second, I resisted with my entire body.
My shoes slid against the patio stones.
The tongs dropped from my other hand.
Then my skin touched the hot metal.
Pain exploded through my palm.
I screamed and ripped myself free, knocking the serving table sideways as I stumbled back.
Glasses hit the patio and shattered.
A bowl of barbecue sauce flipped through the air and burst across the front of Cynthia’s white dress.
Guests jumped away as red sauce splattered their shoes and the legs of the lawn chairs.
Someone shouted Ivan’s name.
Someone else dropped a plate.
The plate broke beside the spilled ice, but I barely heard it.
My injured hand throbbed against my chest, and the shock made the edges of the yard look unnaturally sharp.
Ivan stood beside the grill, breathing hard.
