Chapter 3

Emily's POV

"Hey," I said shortly, turning back to my homework.

"Are you okay?" Ethan's voice was soft, concerned. "You're limping."

"I'm fine."

"Emily." He crouched down next to my desk so we were at eye level. "What happened to your face?"

Instinctively, my hand went up to touch my cheek. "Nothing. I just—I fell. It's stupid."

His eyes moved to my hand. To the cut on my palm that I'd forgotten to hide.

"You fell," he repeated, his tone making it clear he didn't believe me for a second.

"Ethan, please." I kept my voice low. People were starting to stare. "Just drop it, okay?"

He studied my face for a long moment. Then he stood up, but he didn't go back to his seat. "I'm driving you home after school."

"No, you're not."

"Yeah," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "I am."

"Ethan—"

"I'm not asking, Emily. Relax, it's not a kidnapping if you know my GPA."

Before I could argue, Mr. Peterson walked in and Ethan had to go back to his seat.

---

Ethan was waiting at my locker when I got there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He looked like he belonged on a movie poster—tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy confidence that came from never having to worry about anything more serious than the next game.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ethan, you really don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I want to." He pushed off from the wall and gestured toward the exit. "Come on."

I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, to go back to his perfect life and stop trying to save the broken girl from the wrong side of town.

But my hip hurt. My feet hurt. And the thought of squeezing onto a crowded train, standing for an hour while strangers pressed against me from all sides, made me want to cry.

My father wouldn't let me get a work permit—refused to sign the papers that would let me get an after-school job. And I couldn't even stay late at school to avoid the crowds. If I came home too late without a good reason, he'd beat me for it. So I was stuck with the worst of both worlds: no money and no excuse to stay away.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Okay."

Ethan's face lit up with a smile that was almost worth the risk of letting him get close.

We walked to the parking lot together. His truck was a blue Ford F-150, probably ten years old but well-maintained. He opened the passenger door for me.

"Where do you live?" he asked as he started the engine.

I gave him an address two blocks away from my actual apartment. Close enough that the walk wouldn't kill me, far enough that he wouldn't see where I really lived.

He pulled out of the parking lot and we drove in silence for a few minutes. Then he said, "You know, you never answered my question from last month."

"What question?"

"I asked you to Prom."

"Oh." I'd been hoping he'd forgotten about that. "Ethan, I can't—"

"Why not?"

Because you're you and I'm me. Because you live in a house with a yard and two parents who don't hit each other. Because if you knew the truth about my life, you'd run in the other direction. Because I can't afford a dress and I don't know how to dance and I don't belong in your world.

"I'm just... busy," I said lamely.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Is someone hurting you, Emily?"

My breath caught in my throat. "What? No. I told you, I fell—"

"You're always covered in long sleeves. You flinch when people get too close. And today you have a black eye and a cut on your hand and you're limping." He glanced at me, his expression serious. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were."

"Then don't lie to me."

We'd reached the address I'd given him. He pulled over to the curb and put the truck in park. Then he turned to face me fully.

"Emily, if someone is hurting you, you can tell me. I can help."

No, you can't, I thought. Nobody can help. The system doesn't work for people like me.

"I'm fine," I said again, reaching for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride."

His hand caught my wrist—gently, carefully, but I still jerked back like I'd been burned. He immediately let go, his eyes widening.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine." I got out of the truck before he could say anything else. "Thanks for the ride, Ethan. Really."

I started walking before he could respond.

When I finally reached the apartment building, I stood outside for a moment, staring at our window. Behind it was my father, probably still passed out. My mother, probably cleaning up the blood and glass.

And me. Eighteen years old with a scholarship to State University and a future that was supposed to be bright.

If I could just survive long enough to reach it.

I took a deep breath and went inside.

The stairwell smelled like piss and old garbage. When I reached our door, I paused with my hand on the knob.

Please let him still be asleep. Please let today just be over.

I opened the door.

My father was sitting at the kitchen table. Not passed out on the couch. Sitting upright, wide awake, a beer in his hand.

My stomach dropped.

"You're home early," he said. His voice was steady. Too steady. He wasn't drunk anymore.

I looked around the apartment. The glass had been cleaned up. The coffee table was back in its place. Everything looked almost normal.

Except my mother was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Mom?" I asked, my voice coming out smaller than I wanted.

"She's resting."

Something in the way he said it made my skin crawl. The bedroom door was shut tight. We never closed that door during the day.

"Is she okay?" I took a step toward the hallway. "I need to check on her—"

"She's fine." His chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. "Leave her alone."

"I just want to make sure—"

"I said leave her alone."

But I was already moving toward the bedroom. Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones, the same way I could always feel when violence was coming.

My father's hand clamped down on my shoulder, yanking me back.

"Let go of me!" I tried to twist away but his grip was iron. "I need to see her! Mom!"

"Shut up," he growled, dragging me away from the hallway.

I fought him. Clawed at his arm with my fingernails. Kicked at his shins. "MOM! MOM, ARE YOU OKAY?"

Then I heard it.

From behind the closed bedroom door. A man's voice. Deep and rough.

"Oh God, yeah... you feel so good... so tight for your age..."

Marvin Locker's voice. The man from six months ago. The one my father had been doing business with—selling my mother to him by the hour.

I'd found out by accident. I'd screamed and thrown things and threatened to call the police. My father had beaten me for it, but after that it stopped. Or so I thought.

He hadn't stopped. He'd just gotten smarter about the timing. Made sure I wouldn't know. Made sure I wouldn't interfere.

The bedroom door was right there. Ten feet away. And behind it—

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no—"

I went wild. I clawed at his arms, kicked at anything I could reach. I had to get to that door. Had to open it. Had to be wrong about what was happening behind it.

"You fucking bitch!" My father's patience snapped. He grabbed me by both arms and physically lifted me off my feet. "I told you to STAY OUT OF IT!"

He hauled me toward the front door. I kicked and screamed and fought but he was so much stronger. He yanked the door open and threw me out into the hallway.

I hit the floor hard, my shoulder slamming into the wall. Pain shot through my body but I barely felt it. All I could hear was that voice from the bedroom, all I could think about was—

Strong hands caught me before I could collapse completely.

"Emily! Jesus Christ—"

I looked up. Ethan was crouched beside me, his face tight with worry.