Page 66 of Forbidden Heart

I zip up my bag and look around wildly, not sure of what to do or where to go.

"Roonie, is that you?” Father shouts a second later, racing into the house. “Why did you leave the goddamn door open, girl?"

The front door slams shut, trapping me inside.

What do I do?

I still have my phone—the one the guys got me—but if I call them, they probably won’t pick up. Even if they did, and they decided to come help, by the time they got here all the way from campus, it would be too late.

Do I call the police? Who knows how long they’d take, and would they even believe a word I say? All the bruises have healed. And what if Father tells them I’m trespassing, or worse, stealing?

“Roonie!” Father thunders across the house, and the stairs creak under his weight.

My heart hammers in my chest as I race toward the bedroom door, slam it shut, and stick my chair under the doorknob. Does that even work in real life or just in movies? And even if it does, how long would it keep him out?

“I knew you'd be back,” Father shouts from about halfway up the stairs. He sounds out of breath, and for the first time I find myself grateful for his unhealthy drinking habits.

“I’m not back.” I mutter under my breath. I have to get out of here.

My gaze locks on the window, and I race toward it. The drop to the unkempt yard below is huge, but maybe if I can reach one of the tree branches, I can climb down.

I should probably have attempted this at least once growing up, but sneaking out with a parent like Father was never worth the risk. This time, though, I know I have no choice.

The doorknob rattles behind me, and I throw open the window in a panic. I throw my backpack out first, knowing full and well my laptop might not survive. I don’t really care, as long as I do.

“Open this door.” Father thunders, rattling the doorknob again and then banging on it for good measure. My cue to go.

I slide one foot out the window and then the other until I’m sitting on the windowsill. My palms feel sweaty and the drop makes me a little sick. But no, I can do this. I have to do this. The bruises and broken bones if I fall won’t be any worse than the ones I’ll suffer through if Father gets to me.

The doorknob rattles again, and then he slams into the door. The chair splintering echoes through the room and the chair crashes to the floor with a loud thud.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Get off of there this instant!” Father shouts.

He races across the bedroom, and my chest explodes with fear. What if he pushes me or yanks me inside? I can’t let it come to that.

I push off from the window and reach for the branch. My palms wrap around it, and I ignore the sting as I swing outward and somehow manage to wrap my legs around the branch. My heart continues to race, and then I feel something sliding out of my back pocket—the brand new phone the guys got me. It crashes to the ground below, and I look down, my stomach lurching at the distance to the ground.

“Roonie,” Father shouts from the window. “Get back here.”

“No,” I shout back.

“I’m coming down,” he warns, and suddenly I’m filled with another wave of panic.

Before I can think better of it, I unwrap my legs from around the branch. I’m left hanging, like I’m about to do a pull-up, which isn’t something I was ever good at. Which means there’s only one way out—and one way down—by letting go. And I better do it fast, too, because the thought of Father reaching the front yard before I do chills me to the bone.

With no choice left, I let go of the tree branch. My designer sneakers don’t provide any cushioning, and I drop to the ground with a spine-jarring thud. It takes me a few seconds to recover, but a few tentative steps prove that nothing’s broken.

I grab my backpack, stuff my newly shattered phone—which refuses to power on—into my pocket in case it can somehow be fixed, and stumble toward the street.

“Roonie, wait,” Father shouts from my bedroom window, proving that him coming downstairs was just an empty threat.

“No.” I shake my head and back away from the house. “I’m leaving, and I won’t be back.”

So many feelings flood through me at those words. Triumph at finally standing up to him. Freedom, because I’m done with Father and my old life. Power, for taking my life into my own hands.

Then, with five little words, Father manages to shatter it all.

“I got you a job,” he says.