I swallow, forcing my voice steady. “Goodnight, Colter.”
And then I walk into the house before I can look at him again, before I can ask for something I don’t know how to name.
The stars stay with me, though, burning behind my ribs, refusing to fade.
And a question remains on my tongue…who am I to Colter Shaw?
17
It always starts this way.The nightmare. No—the memory that comes to haunt my nightmares.
I’m ten again, hiding in a small room which never felt safe, the one with peeling paint and the broken lock that never worked right. Only tonight, I made it work—I shoved the chair under the knob, my skinny arms trembling as I pressed it into place before securing the chair with the small dressing table my mother picked from the trash.
The door rattles.
At first, it’s soft, a test, the scrape of wood against wood. Then his voice comes, low and sweet, making my stomach twist.
“Baby girl, it’s me. C’mon now, open up. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I press harder into the corner, my knees pulled to my chest, hands clamped over my ears. But no matter how tight I press, his voice seeps through. Always does.
The knob jiggles. The door shudders in its frame.
“Don’t you trust me? Don’t you love me? Your mom surely does.” His tone sharpens, the syrupy coaxing snapping like a twig underfoot. “Open the damn door before I kick it down!”
I rock against the wall, the wallpaper gritty against my back, and hum under my breath. Anything to drown him out. My palms are hot against my ears, my heart pounding so hard I swear it will pop from my chest.
He laughs then, high-pitched and jittery. Drugs in his veins and in his voice. “Sweetheart, I’ll be real good to you. Just let me in, yeah? You’ve always wanted a daddy. Let me show you how a daddy loves his daughter. Just for a little while.”
The chair jerks. Wood groans. The door bucks hard enough to send a crack racing down the paint.
“No,” I whisper, though no sound escapes my dry throat. My lips move, but the words are silent.
He slams the door again. The hinges scream.
“Don’t make me mad, girl. You don’t want me mad.”
My whole body shakes as I squeeze tighter into the corner, wishing I could fold myself into the floorboards, vanish through the cracks. The air tastes like dust and panic.
“I should tell them about you,” he rages. “Tell them your mommy’s little secret. But that wouldn’t be fun, would it? Not if they take you from me.”
The door rattles one more time, so hard the chair would have skittered across the floor if it wasn’t for the vanity holding it in place. His breathing fills the silence that follows, sharp and erratic. Then—knuckles rap against the wood, gentle. Now. A sing-song whisper brushing through.
“Please. Please, baby girl. Just let me in.”
I shut my eyes tight, hands clamped over my ears, and rock faster. The sound of his voice fades into static, into the thud of my own pulse, into the darkness that finally swallows everything whole.
In this darkness, I ask myself one question.
Why won’t my mommy protect me?
John gives me Sunday off. Said I “earned it.” Whatever the hell that means. I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
At breakfast, I half-listen as Lee and Jackson go back and forth about their plans for the day—something about taking the horses out on the trails. I push food around my plate, appetite nowhere to be found, still shaking off the edges of last night’s nightmare.
Not any nightmare.Thatone.
The one about him.
