prologue
SIERRA
Sometimes the real monsters weren’t the ones hiding in the shadows under your bed or in your closet. Sometimes the real monsters were the ones who were supposed to protect you from them in the first place.
A steady drumming in my temple matched the pace of my racing heart as I took in my surroundings. The world around me was devoid of color, everything in shades of gray.
Glass shards crunched under my body as I hauled myself to my feet, muscles shaking on the verge of giving out. An acrid, coppery scent filled my nostrils, and warm liquid dripped down my cheeks.
Tears?
I pressed my fingers to the skin under my eye, wincing at the sting of pain that came with it before my hand retreated back down under my gaze.
No.
Blood, like melted honey, clung to my fingertips.
The remnants of liquor bottles covered the hardwood floor, and I debated reaching down to grab one of thejagged pieces. It would be so easy, too easy, to get it over with. End all of this—all the fear, all the pain and suffering—for good.
After taking a deep breath, I carefully stepped over the dark figure lying on the floor, heading to the kitchen counter. My heart hammered against my ribs as my vision tunneled on the phone, the whole reason I’d gotten up from a heap on the floor in the first place.
My fingers moved on their own, pressing buttons as though it were muscle memory, even though my limbs trembled as I raised the phone to my ear.
A few heavy moments passed, hanging still in the silence of the dark, sleepy street of my neighborhood.
They say monsters aren’t born. They’re made.
A feminine voice crackled in my ear. “911, what’s the address of your emergency?”
But who gets to decide what makes a monster?
CHAPTER ONE
sierra
Montana was populated by men with small penises. At least that’s what I could only assume when an ugly, lifted Chevy Silverado cut me off for the third time today. I banged my fist against the steering wheel, hoping the blaring of my horn would get the message across that they were a major fucking asshole.
I wasn’t even driving slow—I was going ten over the speed limit. And I couldn’t just slam on my brakes. I had a damn horse trailer for God’s sake.
In hindsight, I should’ve seen this coming. Driving in Goldfinchsucked. There were way too many people on the roads and only one route I could really take to get anywhere.
As if the universe sensed my frustration, another idiot in a compensator truck changed lanes, swerving in front of me without using their blinker.
Laying on the horn, I mentally cursed the TV shows that made Montana so popular.
Stupid college boys, with their stupid ugly-ass lifted pickups, who don’t use their stupid-ass blinkers.
How hard was it to flick a simple switch and use your turn signal? Then again, college boys—and men, really—were lazy and didn’t do anything extra, even if their lives depended on it.
My stress levels weren’t up only because of the horrible drivers, though. My anxiety spiked every time I came within a five-mile vicinity of this town.
Deep breaths, Sierra.
I slowly inhaled, counting to four. After holding my breath for four beats, I exhaled, releasing the air for another four.
All I had to do was make it to the fairgrounds in one piece, run the pattern, and then I could get the hell out of here.
My dog, Pancho, stuck his head out the window, tongue lolling in the breeze and tail wagging a mile a minute. His furry butt wiggled as he nipped at the air then spun in circles in the passenger seat before sticking his head out the window again.
