“No.”
“I’m her father.”
“You’re the man who broke my arm while I was holding her.”
His smile went away.
All at once.
Like a switch.
“Move,” he said.
“No.”
He came fast.
Faster than I remembered.
His hand closed around my wrist.
The same wrist.
The same grip.
Nine years collapsed into one second.
He yanked me sideways.
I went down into the mud.
He stepped over me toward the corner of the shed.
Toward the back door.
Toward my daughter.
And Scout hit him.
Eighty pounds of red dog.
Straight into his chest.
Dale went over backward into the rotten apples.
Scout stood on him.
Snarling.
Teeth an inch from his face.
Hackles up like a wire brush.
Dale froze.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Dale grabbed a fistful of rotten apples and smashed them into Scout’s face.
Scout yelped.
He jerked back.
That was all Dale needed.
