Vera thought of the gouges in the walls and the floors and the ceilings. She thought of the fruit-rot smell of the cigarillos Duvall liked to smoke. She thought of the little burn marks scattered throughout the house like freckles across bare shoulders. She thought of that gray plaster he used to add texture to the boards, and she knew where it came from, and her mouth flooded with saliva. Instead of screaming, she whispered. “He hurts you.” The House looked away again.
