“Those bast—”
“I never ran away!” I exclaim, the bitterness spilling out of me. “I was a model citizen, Tina. I was so careful, counting down the days until I could see my sister again.”
“Were you ever told you’d be able to see her?” she asks.
“Not in so many words,” I say. “But they dangled that carrot in front of me for years. I thought she was in a foster home. They never told me she’d been adopted until the day I left. The day I turned eighteen, they handed me my few belongings and told me, in no uncertain terms, to get out. I was no longer a ward of the state. I asked to see Izzy and was told she’d been adopted. It was a closed adoption, and I’d never see her again.”
“Elle, who isthey?”
“Miss Fletcher,” I say. “The assistant director at the group home. Besides my counselor, she was the only one I ever really talked to about Izzy. She was the liaison betweenme and my sister. She kept me ‘informed,’ supposedly. But she never told me Izzy was adopted.”
“What exactly did Miss Fletcher tell you about Izzy?” Tina asks, lifting an eyebrow, suspicious.
“She told me she was fine. Doing well. Healthy. She let me know when she started kindergarten. When she had a good birthday.”
“They probably didn’t want you to act out or run away,” Tina says. “So they told you just enough to keep you appeased.”
“I never gave them a reason for concern,” I say, my voice firm. “I never lost my temper with anyone in the home. I kept my head down, focused on my grades—knowing I’d need a scholarship and financial aid if I ever wanted to go to college. I knew that once I turned eighteen, I’d be homeless. A cruel detail that turned out to be my harsh reality.”
“I slept on friends’ couches, in motels when I had the money, even in homeless shelters a few times—until I was finally able to move into the dorm.” I glance at her and smile. “Where I met you.”
“Oh, Elle,” Tina says softly. “I never knew.”
“Not my proudest moments,” I admit. “I had a part-time job waitressing. The tips were decent. Just enough to keep myself off the streets—barely.”
***
The knock on the door at nine in the morning makes both of us jump. We’re still sprawled out on the large sectional in the den, where we fell asleep just a few hours ago.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“No,” Tina says, sitting up. “We don’t know anyone, remember?”
“It’s Cal,” I say quietly.
“Who else could it be?” she mutters.
“Tell him I’m not here.”
I turn and start down the hall.
“Elle,” Tina calls after me, “your car’s outside.”
“Then tell him I went for a run.”
I take the stairs two at a time and duck into my bedroom. My reflection in the mirror says it all—the red puffiness around my eyes, the dark circles beneath them. My eyes are bloodshot—stark proof of how many hours I spent crying.
I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and run a brush through my tangled hair. Then I wait.
Curiosity gets the best of me. I crack the bedroom door open just enough to listen.
Voices. Tina’s, a woman’s, and a man’s.
Not Cal’s.
The soft knock on the door jerks my head toward it.
“Elle?” Tina’s voice floats in, gentle, but louder than a thousand trumpets in the silence, making my heart gallop in my chest.
