Chapter One
WREN CARTER
I pullinto the gravel drive with my headlights off because I learned a long time ago that making noise, taking up space, existing too loudly in this house gets me noticed. Noticed is never good.
The porch light is on anyway. It always is. Like Alex keeps it lit to remind me this is his place, his rules, his watchful eyes, even when he is not standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and that look on his face that makes my skin go tight.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. A text from Talia, my manager at the diner.
Talia: You okay? You looked tired tonight.
I stare at it for a second, then lock my screen without answering. If I answer, I’ll have to lie, and if I lie, I’ll hate myself, and I’m already carrying enough hatred that doesn’t belong to me.
I grab my apron from the passenger seat, shove it into my tote, and take my tips out of the envelope I keep tucked behind my sun visor. I count them once, then again, because counting calms me down. Twenty. Forty. Sixty. A crumpled ten that smells like fryer oil. A few ones. A handful of coins.
It isn’t much, but it is mine. It is hours on my feet and cheap shoes that never stop hurting. It is fake smiles and “sweetheart” and men who look too long at my mouth when I ask if they want dessert.
It is my way out.
The back door creaks when I open it, and I pause, listening. The TV isn’t on. No music. No footsteps. I exhale slowly and slip inside, locking it behind me out of habit, out of a hope I don’t believe in.
The kitchen smells like stale coffee and Alex’s cologne. He wears too much of it. Something expensive and sharp that clings to the air like a warning.
I keep my shoes on as I move down the hall. The floorboards are old, and I know which ones scream. I learned that the way other girls learn dance steps or makeup tutorials. Survival in this house is muscle memory.
My room is at the end, small and plain and barely mine. I close the door, then lean my forehead against it for a second.
Just breathe, Wren.
The mirror on my dresser catches my reflection. Hair shoved into a messy bun. Mascara smudged under my eyes. A red line on my wrist from where my hair tie has been sitting all day. I look like what I am: tired, twenty years old, and running on stubbornness and spite.
I drop my tote on the bed and go straight to the closet. Not because I’m obsessed with money. Because I’m obsessed with the idea of not being here.
I slide my hand behind the old shoebox tucked under a stack of sweaters and pull it out. It scrapes softly over the carpet. My heart does this stupid thing where it jumps like it’s excited.
I flip the lid.
And the world tilts.
For a second, my brain tries to make it make sense. Like maybe I opened the wrong box. Like maybe I moved it and forgot. Like maybe I’m dreaming.
The box is empty. Not mostly empty. Not missing a few bills. But empty-empty. I stare at it until my eyes start to burn. Then I set it on the bed very carefully, like if I move too fast everything will shatter.
My hands shake as I dig through the sweaters, through the closet floor, through the corner where I sometimes shove my purse when I come home too tired to think. I yank open drawers. I pull out socks and old T-shirts and a photo of my mom that I keep tucked inside a paperback because I don’t trust Alex not to use it against me. Nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the empty box in my lap, and my breath comes too fast. Two years. Two years of hiding tips. Two years of counting and recounting. Two years of doing math in my head while smiling at tables. Two years of telling myself that even if I feel trapped, I am not trapped because I have a plan. That plan is gone.
I don’t cry. Crying feels like giving him something. Like proving him right. Instead, I stand up so fast my knees knock into the bedframe, and I march out of my room with the empty shoebox in my hands like a weapon.
The house is quiet in a way that makes every sound feel loud. My heartbeat thuds in my ears as I head down the hall, past the family photos that don’t feel like family anymore.
Mom’s laugh used to fill this place. The house used to smell like vanilla candles and spaghetti sauce. My stepdad used to whistle while he fixed things. I used to come home and feel like I belonged. Now it smells like cold air and cologne and control.
Alex’s door is half open. Light spills into the hallway. He is in his room like he owns the world, because he thinks he does. He’s stretched out on his bed with his laptop open, one leg bent, onearm behind his head. He looks up when I appear, and his eyes flick down to the shoebox.
A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “What’s that?” he asks, like he has no idea.
I step inside without asking. I used to knock. I used to be polite. I used to play nice. My voice comes out sharp. “Where is it?”
