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Prologue
Phoebe- eight years ago
The creaking of the floor makes my stomach drop. At night, when everything is still and quiet, the scariest thing to hear in this house is footsteps on the hardwood. The sound signals evil coming. This evil takes a human form, but the flesh hides a monster, and the ‘parents’ cover for every awful thing the monster does to protect their paycheck.
We’re in a foster factory with some of the most dangerous foster kids to ever exist. All foster homes aren’t like this. I’ve been in lots of them, but this one is very different. This family accepts the worst of the worst and lets them stay here until they age out. We aren’t the kids who get a chance at ‘reunification’ with our families, and we’re too old for anyone to want to adopt.
I’ve been here for a few weeks now, and I’m just hoping to survive this place. This is probably my hundredth foster home, but I stopped counting a long time ago. I only know how many days are left until I’m an adult and can get the fuck out of here- 956. When I finally get to be on my own, I’m going to get out of stupid Santa Fe and go back home to Albuquerque.
It would hurt to see whatever they put in the spot my parents’ house used to be, but eventually I’m sure I’ll be able to get over it. Maybe, in time, I’ll save up enough money to buy the house they put there, if that’s what it is. Or maybe I’ll bust the windows out every week to punish the location for making me an orphan. The second idea will probably make me feel better.
Our bedroom door knob clicks and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to disappear into the sheets so he won’t know I’m here. More footsteps, closer this time, and then Rose whimpers, and I turn my head to look at her. I don’t want to see, but I have to know what’s happening.
The same fear that presses down on me and forces me to stay still and silent, tells me I have to watch Tony’s every move to make sure I can react if I’m in danger next.
His hand covers Rose’s mouth and he leans down so close to her face to whisper the words we're warned about here- “Don’t scream.” Those words haunt us all. When you hear them, you know that something insidious will soon follow.
I close my eyes and turn my head away. I won’t watch, but I’m too afraid to move and cause him to notice me, so I can't lift my hands to cover my ears. I’m frozen, listening to her muffled cries, praying for it to end soon. Time seems to slow whenever he’s nearby.
I’ve been told it’s because the fight-or-flight response kicks in and the body floods with adrenaline to help process things faster. Adrenaline makes the heart beat quicker too, so your body has the oxygen it needs to run away or fight for survival. That’s why I’m shaking all over, I think. The adrenaline is coursing through me so quickly, preparing my body to make a move, that my muscles are quivering in anticipation.
But I’ll never move.
I should do something. I know I’m just as guilty as him if I don’t do anything to stop this, but I can’t. My fear overshadows any guilt, any shame, anything other than self-preservation. If I got up and tried to fight him, he would hurt me. He could kill me. I can’t be helpful to her if I’m dead. So I stay still like a rock and quiet as a mouse, hoping with everything in me that the torture won’t last much longer.
The bed finally stops squeaking, and relief washes over me. He’s finally done. Every ounce of calm disappears when he approaches the side of my bed, belt buckle hanging open and jeans still unbuttoned. His finger strokes my cheek and every muscle in my body tenses. “Pretty Phoebe,” he whispers. “Don’t be scared, honey. You’re next.”
Tears roll over my cheeks and he scoops one of them up with his finger. His tongue flicks out to collect the droplet, and he groans. “Your fear tastes so sweet, but I’m too tired tonight. You’ll have to wait ‘tll tomorrow.”
That tomorrow can never come.
I’m running. My body hurts and my feet are bleeding, but I can’t fucking stop. I have to put as much distance between myself and that house as I possibly can. I’ll run forever if I have to, until the countdown on the rest of my days clicks to a finalzero. I can never let that boy get his hands on me.
I’ve been running for a long time, I think. The sun has come up since, and my mouth is getting dry, but I can’t stop running. Maybe the universe will have mercy on me. Maybe today will be my last day. I could jump in front of one of these cars speeding down the highway. It would be painful, and I might fail, but if I’m successful-
Sirens start up behind me, and I finally see it- the light at the end of the tunnel. Help is here. I can stop running, and I do. The cruiser pulls off to the side of the road and parks behind me. A tall officer exits, his hand on the gun at his hip like I’m a threat.
Raising my hands in surrender, I walk towards him. “Help me,” I beg. “You have to help me. My friend, my roommate. He hurt her. He said he would hurt me too. Please. Help.”
Chapter One
Phoebe- present
“Hi, welcome to BIBO. How many?” I ask the people walking in the door, a bright smile pasted to my face.
“Just the two of us,” the elderly woman says.
“Follow me.” I like being a hostess. I do less walking around than the servers, it’s an easy job. I just have to show everyone to their seats and let the servers know they have a table with customers. I love being back in the city I consider my home, and I actually love this job.
The boss, Rhett, is actually really nice. When I showed up here practically begging for a job, he interviewed me on the spot. He told me I didn’t have to give anyone, including him, details about the trial I was a witness in when I was fifteen. He also paid for the hotel room that I was about to get kicked out of for not being able to pay. He even paid for an extra month’s stay, without saying a word to me about it. I’ve been able to make every payment in full and on time since then thanks to his generosity.
Clara nods at me as we pass by, acknowledging that she knows these people are going to her section. I give them the usual speech, but I’m already mentally checked out for my break. I’m so tired from being up staring at the door all night. I need this break. There’s a button under my podium that turns a light on to let the others in the restaurant know that I’m away and someone needs to take care of any guests that come through the door.
I hit the button and step into the break room. My phone is the first thing I check, but no one has contacted me since I started my shift. That’s not surprising. All my friends are probably at work too. I lived in Albuquerque when I was a kid, so I was actually able to get back into contact with some of the people I knew from back then.
None of them know about the darker parts of my past. They only know the romanticized version I gave them that gives me a chance to socialize like a normal person, but it usually leaves me feeling lonelier than I would if I just stuck to myself.
The kids I grew up with love my turquoise hair, and no one finds it weird that I have anxiety, because they do too. They understand when I back out of plans and refuse to go to new places. They also have arm’s length resumes and have lived at a thousand different addresses, just like me. It doesn’t seem odd because my generation is known for wandering.
