“You don’t need to apologize.”
I’m the one who needs to apologize—tomyself.Because I swore when I got here that the good people of Yosemite Ranch would not see me as pathetic.Damaged goods.Capable of bloodshed.
I just blew it.
Phyllis will surely tell everyone about poor, broken Emma Clark, who got abandoned as a baby and has lived a very hard life.She won’t do it out of cruelty, but out of kindness, because she’s a sweet woman who wants to help me.
But it won’t matter.
There’s no fixing the past.
Notmypast.
“I’m suddenly very tired.Thank you so much for the treat.”I hug her back and stand from the table.
I didn’t lie.I am so tired I can’t see straight.But I do what needs to be done for the day, make sure everyone eats a healthy and delicious dinner and that the kitchen is spotless afterward.
And then I make an excuse so that I can fall into bed before it’s even dark.I lock the door.
If I’m going to open the backpack, I need to do it alone.
CHAPTER 62
Emma
When I first came to this house just a week ago, I was thrilled to have my own room.I couldn’t believe it!What a luxury!In every other foster situation I’ve been in, it’s been three or four girls in a room filled with bunkbeds.
At first, I thought I’d really hit the jackpot this time.
I learned the truth last night.I had my own room because that’s how he wanted it.The secret would be easier to hide this way.No prying eyes would see what he does to me.
I hear his footsteps.
I try to lock the door, but the latch won’t hold.I can’t go to sleep with the door unlocked.If I do, he’ll come in.And I can’t let that happen.
Never again.
Over and over, I try to force the lock.Then I realize the latch has been filed down on purpose so he can get to me.Maybe so he could get to whatever child was in this room before me.
The clock in the hallway ticks.It ticks and ticks and ticks and never slows.It’s telling me that the night’s horrors are about to start.
I look for something to bar the door.But there’s nothing in here but a single bed and a chair.Not even a dresser!I grab the chair and try to cram the back under the door knob, but it’s too short.It won’t reach.
I bet he made sure of it.
I hear his footsteps in the hallway.The ticking of the clock gets louder, so loud that I have to slap my hands over my ears.I can’t lock the door.I can’t bar the door.
But maybe I can hide.
I open the door to the tiny closet only to find it piled high with large boxes and jammed with what feels like an old ironing board, an old sewing machine, and a bunch of other junk.No light switch or chain.It’s too dark to see.
I attempt to shove my body inside, but there’s no room for even a small girl like me.My nightshirt catches on the sharp edge of the ironing board frame and rips.
I have just seconds.No time for moving around boxes, hiding, and replacing the boxes.
I’d be found anyway.I can’t be the first kid to have come up with this idea.
I could jump out the window.
