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A little while ago, when the fury of the storm had invaded her dreams, it spun her back in time to another night a long, long time ago.
No, she’d whimpered, deep in the dream, no!
It hadn’t mattered.
She’d come awake in terror. And when she saw the figure bending over her, that terror had wrapped its bony hands around her throat.
“No,” she’d screamed—and then Damian had spoken her name.
He was the man leaning over her bed, not a fat monster who stunk of beer and sweat.
He hadn’t grabbed her breast, squeezed it, laughed as he ripped her nightgown open.
He hadn’t clamped a sweaty palm over her mouth as she tried to fight him off, her fifteen-year-old self no match for a man who earned his living swinging a pick ax.
Not a sound, he’d said, his stinking breath washing over her. You make one noise, just one, I’ll tell the social worker you stole money outta my wallet and you’ll be back in Juvie Placement so fast it’ll make your head spin.
She hadn’t stolen anything. Ever. The first time, in a different foster home, they’d said she’d taken a hundred dollars. She hadn’t—but Kay said she had to be lying because the only other person who could have done it was her. Kay. Was Ivy accusing her of theft?
Kay stayed in that home. Ivy was sent back to the Placement facility. Eventually they’d put her in another foster home.
Kay turned eighteen and left the system.
“See you,” she said.
And Ivy was alone.
Six months in one place. Three in another. Bad places. Dirty places. And then, finally, a place where the woman just looked right through her and the man smiled and said, Call me Daddy.
Ivy had felt her heart lift.
Daddy, she’d said, and even though he wasn’t like her real daddy—whom she barely remembered—or her stepfather, Kay’s father, whom she’d loved with all her heart—even though he wasn’t, he was nice.
At least, that was what she thought.
He bought her a doll. Some books. And when he began coming into her room at night, to tuck her in, she’d felt a little funny because he also took to kissing her on the cheek but if he was her daddy, her real daddy, that was okay, wasn’t it?
A light wind blowing in over the sea raised goose bumps on her skin. Ivy shuddered and drew the cashmere blanket more closely around her.
And then it all changed. One night, a storm was roaring outside. Lightning. Thunder. Rain. It scared her but she finally fell asleep—and woke to see the man she called Daddy standing over her bed.
Even now, all these years later, the memory was sheer agony.
He’d hurt her. Hurt her bad. He came to her each night, night after night, and when she finally tried to tell the woman, she’d slapped her in the face, called her a slut…
And Kay had come.
Ivy had flown to embrace her but Kay had pushed her away.
“What’d you do, huh?” she’d said coldly. “Don’t give me that innocent look. Did you play games with this man like you did with my father?”
“What games?” Ivy had said in bewilderment. “I loved your father. He treated me as if I were his own daughter.”
The look on her stepsister’s face had been as frigid as her voice. “Only one problem, Little Miss Innocent. He already had a daughter. Me.”
She’d lived with Kay for a few months but she knew she was in the way. And then, a couple of weeks after she turned seventeen, a man walked up to her on Madison Avenue, handed her his card and said, “Give me a call and we’ll see if you have what it takes to become a model.”
Kay had said yes, fine, do whatever you want. Just remember, never tell anybody what you did because they’ll tell you how disgusting you really are.
