Soon, she’ll see me.
Soon, she’ll remember.
Tonight…she’ll be mine.
Chapter Three
Nick
ThefirsttimeIsaw her, she had a bloody lip and fire in her eyes. Twelve years later, I’m still trying to catch my breath.
She stood at the edge of the kitchen with her arms crossed and a glare that could’ve melted brick. The rest of us kids huddled behind the couch, watching with held breath like we were waiting for a grenade to go off, and we were.
Meredith flung a metal spoon across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp clang before clattering to the floor. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
Greta, our foster mom—acrylic nails, cigarette-stained fingers, vodka on her breath—stomped over with a face like thunder. She started screaming about “ungrateful little bitches” and how we didn’t deserve second helpings of stew. I shrank back, heart jackhammering, but Meredith stood her ground.
She didn’t back down. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t cry.
Instead, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room like she owned the fucking place. For a second, nobody moved. I swear even Greta froze, thrown off by the fact that someone dared to just walk away. Meredith had done what the rest of us only ever fantasized about, she’d stood up and simply left.
I waited maybe five minutes, until Greta’s ranting slid into drunken muttering and the other kids scattered like roaches. Then I slipped away to find the girl with the storm in her eyes.
I found her in the back hallway, legs pulled up to her chest, head resting on her knees. Her dark hair fell forward, hiding most of her face. The split in her bottom lip had stopped bleeding, but it was swollen and angry. Fading bruises bloomed along her arms, fingerprints and shadows that looked wrong on someone who was only thirteen. I felt something hot and ugly flare up under my skin at the sight of them.
Quietly, I sat down beside her without asking. The hallway light above us flickered, painting her in jumpy flashes of yellow. The air smelled like piss, floor polish, and old stew—standard for that house—but neither of us reacted. We just sat there, shoulder to shoulder on scuffed linoleum, listening to the muffled shouting now coming from the living room.
For a long time, she didn’t acknowledge me at all.
Finally, without looking over, she spoke. “You’re the new one.” Her voice was flat, frayed at the edges.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Nicholas.”
“I didn’t ask,” she snapped, but there was no real bite in it. Just exhaustion.
I snuck a look from the corner of my eye. She’d folded in on herself, trying to take up as little space as possible, like if she could make herself small enough the world might forget to hit her. She looked fragile and dangerous at the same time, like glass with a razor edge.
Silence settled again. Her tension vibrated between us. I wanted to say something useful, but my tongue felt too big and dumb in my mouth. I’d only been in this house a week and was already hollowed out by it. But watching her stand up to Greta…that had sparked something small in me. Hope, maybe. Or fixation. Hard to tell the difference when you’re starving.
After a minute, I reached into my pocket where I’d shoved the last crust of bread from dinner. I held it out to her. “You want the rest of my bread?”
She lifted her head and looked at me then. Her eyes were a stormy gray, glassy and bright, like rain was coming and she dared it to fall. The sight hit me low and hard. For the first time in weeks, I actually felt something other than fear or numbness.
She stared at the bread, but didn’t take it. “You’re gonna hate it here,” she said.
I already did, but I shrugged. “You don’t?”
A bitter snort slipped out of her. “You think I like it here?”
“You’re not crying,” I said quietly.
She narrowed her eyes, studying me like I was something to figure out. Then she sighed, the sound too tired for someone our age. “Crying doesn’t help. They don’t care.” Matter-of-fact. Like she was reciting a rule written in stone.
The words landed in my gut with a heavy, familiar thud. She was right. Mom leaving had taught me that much.
I nodded slowly. “Then I won’t cry either.”
She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “Good.” That came out softer, like maybe she was relieved.
