The options to entertain him were limited. There was no way we were wandering to the playground I saw when we were brought here. The front yard was open and easily accessible to the street. The back, however, was enclosed by a six-foot chain-link fence. There were trees sheltering the edges, and the neighbor’s shed butted along the back. Ivan also had a small tool shed, which had a large padlock—not that I wanted to peek at what kinds of tools he kept in there.
Itshouldbe safe in the backyard.
“Why don’t we go out back and play,” I suggested.
Brady whooped.
I pressed my finger over my lip and hissed. “Ivan is sleeping.”
“Oh, right, sorry!” Brady sang out.
He was already scrambling off the kitchen chair and racing to his boots. He tugged them on a second later then stood, hopping up and down as I slipped some flipflops on mine.
The moment he was outside, he seemed to relax as a burst of pent-up energy released. He ran a full lap around the fence—like a dog—and then began examining the patches of dirt where the grass wasn’t growing. I sank onto the top step on the porch, not having the energy after a sleepless night to do more than watch him.
My mind drifted from thought to thought. This place was nothing more than a cage. Unlike the one I grew up in, it was small. There wasn’t a plush lawn, a manicured garden, or a high fence where guards roamed. There wasn’t even a digital surveillance system or high-tech perimeter monitoring.
Which is good.
It would make escaping much easier.
I didn’t have the brain energy to plot our exit right now. Leaning my head against the side of the house, I continued to make comparisons between my past and this present. Brady was not going to grow up in a place where he felt trapped. Where even the backyard didn’t feel safe.
And what about the first time he saw violence?
I shuddered.
He might be a wild child, but he was also unbelievably sweet and kind. Seeing the monster his father was would forever scar his heart. As it had for me. I closed my eyes. That day had come when I was barely older than Brady.
The balloons Giana Partucchi ordered were pink, not red. I slid the piece of vanilla cake into the trash when no one was looking. The pink rosebuds smooshed against the boxes and plastic, and I hurried to put the plate in the sink. Maybe Max would know how to find strawberry cake.
Tears welled in my eyes.
But if Signora Partucchi found me crying, she would say I was a naughty little girl. An ungrateful little girl. Her husband was papa’s friend, and she didn’t need to spend her Saturday hosting this party for me.
While everyone laughed and talked loudly, I scampered up the back stairs. Papa said he had a special gift for me. That wasn’t going to be a disappointment. My papa was the best!
I’d seen him go upstairs with Signor Partucchi earlier. They would be talking business, and I wasn’t allowed in the office while they did that. But I would just find a spot to wait. It was better than the stupid party, anyhow.
The halls upstairs were filled with a gloomy stream of sunlight. November was a dumb month for birthdays. Max was so lucky! He got to have water parks and mini golf for his twelfth birthday.
I crept to the office door, and sure enough, voices sounded through the space.
They were loud, and papa didn’t sound happy.
Going to the library, I saw the sliding door was open, just as I suspected. On tiptoes, holding my breath like Max taught me, I moved forward. Very, very sneaky. I crouched, making myself small, and peered around the sliding door. I was careful not to make it jiggle in its pocket.
A thump-thump-thump sounded in the office.
There were five…no. Six men inside.
One of them was bent, and his face looked really funny.
“You’re scum, Romizi,” Signor Partucchi spat.
“Enough.” Papa’s voice was angry. The volume made me freeze. “No one skims from the books.”
I frowned. Papa didn’t like to read.
