He had looked at her.
Not like a father.
Like a man examining the last
object in a burning house.
Then he had said:
“Gideon Rook offered fifty.”
Rosalie had stared at him.
“For what?”
“For you.”
She had laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes the mind laughed when it could not bear to understand.
Now the front door opened.
Her father shouted upstairs.
“Rosalie!”
She came down.
Merrick stood beside the fireplace, smiling.
He was already drunk.
“Look at that,” he said.
“You almost look like Mama.”
Rosalie ignored him.
Her father pushed a paper across the table.
“Sign.”
She looked at it.
A marriage agreement.
Fifty dollars.
Her name.
Gideon Rook’s name.
Rosalie looked at her father.
“Did you even ask him if he wanted me?”
“He saw you.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Her father slammed his hand against the table.
“You think you have choices?”
