DEBORAH'S POV
I drove home with my hands shaking on the steering wheel. The torn dress clung to my skin like a second layer of shame, and I could still feel the sting of Imogen's slap on my cheek. When I pulled into our driveway, I sat there for a moment, staring at the house that had once felt like a fortress and now felt like a prison.
Inside, I stripped off the ruined dress and threw it in the trash. I couldn't bear to look at it anymore. The shower water ran hot against my skin, washing away the parking lot dirt and the humiliation, but it couldn't wash away the conversation that kept replaying in my mind.
Prove to me you are a good person and reveal your father's crimes against my family to the public.
I dried off and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, examining the small cuts on my palms from hitting the pavement. They weren't deep, but they stung. I found some antiseptic in the medicine cabinet and dabbed it on the wounds, wincing at the burn.
