But the fact that she trusts me enough not to ask—to just go when I ask her to—that just adds to the growing storm of guilt in my chest, echoing through me like a thunderclap in the Cumberland Mountains, and sends a fresh stream of tears down my face.
I’d been so close to making such a horrible choice.
And yet, part of me still can’t help but wonder if this choice,to turn my back on Sol and my sisters, is just as horrible in its own way.
Rose pulls on a pair of jeans and finds the red hoodie she arrived here in. And, of course, she grabs that same tube of red lipstick she’s kept with her for the last few months. Not a day has passed where she hasn’t put it on. Even here, with a new name and Sol telling her to let everything from her past life go, she’s held on to that piece of herself.
It’s more than I’ve managed to hold on to.
I get dressed in a hurry. I’m not even sure who the clothes I grab originally belonged to. We’ve all made an art of haphazardly putting together outfits composed of the clothes we’d brought with us to the cabin and the cheapest pieces we could find—or steal, I suspect—from Goodwill. My own clothes, the ones I brought with me, are too big now. A year’s worth of small meals and little sleep have altered my body. So I find a pair of sweatpants that are a little too long and a raggedy, ripped sweater. I leave everything else behind, not wanting to take anything from the other girls.
I look at the girl in the drawing one last time before folding the paper up and shoving it—along with the business card—intomy pocket. I’ve given away or sold so much since arriving here: my car, my camera, myhair. Even my clothes have become community property. But this drawing—this singular, secret gift Zinnia gave me—is mine.
The thought nudges me to turn back around and dig through the clothes pile again, until I find the familiar soft leather jacket. I shrug it on, letting its weight settle on my shoulders. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I last wore it.
Once both Rose and I have put on whatever shoes we can find, we move like ghosts to the attic door, leaving Poppy and Zinnia none the wiser as they sleep peacefully on the bed.
I stop in the doorway and look back at them. They are two of my best friends. And even though the thought of them potentially going into foster care or being separated breaks my heart, it doesn’t compare to the terror I feel when I think about the trials Sol might assign to them come summer. And that thought is what cements a plan in my mind at last.
“We’ll come back for them,” I whisper to Rose. “We’ll get to town, get help, and come back for them.”
Rose nods in silent agreement.
We creep down the stairs, trying to be careful not to cause any of the old wooden boards to creak. Finally, we reach the livingroom, and I’m relieved to find that it’s completely empty.
“Any clue where Sol keeps the truck keys?” Rose whispers.
I shake my head. “Probably in his room? We’ll have to walk.” I keep my voice low. “There’s a flashlight in the shed. If we follow the dirt road, we can get to town in an hour. Then I guess we’ll have to find the police station?”
“I know where it’s at.”
I raise an eyebrow at her.
She shrugs. “I made a point of finding out when I ran into town that day. Thought it might end up mattering.” She glances toward the door and then back at me. “You ready?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
I know she must have questions. Ones I’ll have to answer later. But I’m grateful that she’s holding them back for now. There will be plenty of time to explain everything once we’re on the road, making that long walk to town.
Sol’s knife is still in my right hand as I reach for the door, turning the knob and pulling it open slowly, hoping not to make any noise.
But I know as soon as I step out onto the front porch that it doesn’t matter, that all of our efforts to be quiet and careful are in vain.
Becausehe is waiting for us.
Of course he is.
Sol stands on the porch, his face lit by the unsettling orange glow of the flame from the cigarette he’s smoking. He smiles with it between his teeth as he looks at me.
“Going somewhere, sweetheart?”
CAELA
Maybeit was fate, or just a rare spark of luck, that brought Caela to Culverton. She’d been traveling from town to town for a couple of weeks, sleeping at rest stops or on back roads beneath her dad’s leather jacket, buying off the McDonald’s dollar menu with the little bit of cash she still had from working at Ricci’s. She didn’t know where she was going or what she was going to do when that pitiful savings ran out.
She wanted to go home. But home was back in Ohio, in a little two-bedroom apartment that belonged to some other family now. Home was a Saturday morning on the couch with her dad, wearing flannel pajamas and eating scrambled eggs while they laughed at bad movies. Home was doing homework to the sound of him singing along with Soundgarden while he made them dinner.
Hermother’s house hadn’t been home. It was never going to replace the home she’d lost.
