CHAPTER ONE
My head hurts. Something warm and wet runs down my face. I try to lift my hand to wipe it away, but a pain shoots up my arm, making me moan. Where am I? Why does my head throb? Along with stifled yelling, the pulsing wail of a siren sounds somewhere nearby.
The shouts grow closer, clearer, until finally a man hollers from right next to me. "Is she alive?"
A strong hand wraps around my wrist, fingers pressing to the inside pulse point. When an unbearable pain radiates through my body, I realize my head and arm aren't the only things hurting. I try to tell them to stop and leave me be, but the words die on my tongue as my dry mouth holds the sound in. I pry one eye open, but my vision blurs. I blink once. Twice.
My vision and mind clear, bringing a terrifying reality of chaos and wreckage into focus. Flashing red, blue, and white lights illuminate the room, reflecting off broken glass littering the floor. A pair of booted feet stomps past my line of sight. Following the boots as they crunch over the bits of glass, I catch sight of her. Lying on her back, she has one arm spread wide and the other flung over her eyes. Even with her eyes covered, she wears the permanent scowl I know too well. The same scowl stars in many of my nightmares.
Vaguely aware of someone lifting me off the ground, my body becomes numb and my focus fixates on her chest, waiting for movement. She remains still, showing no signs of breath entering or exiting her body. Panic closes my airway as I struggle to break free of the person holding me. The arms around my body refuse to let go.
A scream gets lodged in my throat.
With a harsh jolt, I wake myself and try to breathe through the panic. My eyes dart around in an effort to ensure the horrors from that night aren’t truly happening again. The people sitting on the plane ignore me. Hopefully, I didn't cry out or scream in my sleep. I wish the bad dreams could be classified as nightmares, but they're not. They're memories. Staying awake for days on end helps me avoid them, but my body shuts down after a while, unable to handle another minute without sleep.
Pushing aside the terrifying memory, I let out a deep breath to relax and turn my attention to the view out the window in hopes of a distraction. The plane descends in preparation for landing. I slept the entire two-hour flight. It’s not much, but it may hold me over for a while. Living in Washington State and not traveling, I never imagined I would end up on a plane to southern California.
The idea of leaving the state at all never occurred to me, but now, I'm headed to live with my father. A man I’ve never met before. A man who knew nothing about me until a few weeks ago when social services tracked him down thanks to some paperwork of my mother’s the police found. For some reason, she listed him on my birth certificate.
In December, I turn eighteen, which means I need a guardian for six months. A normal girl would be happy about meeting their father. Part of me is curious what he'll be like. I’ve wondered about him my entire life, but Mom never provided any answers. There's really no telling what I should expect with him.
My body jerks in my seat as the plane's wheels hit the ground. The screeching of the breaks startles me out of my musings and the captain's voice, announcing the plane’s arrival at LAX airport, comes over the intercom. The seatbelt light turns off, and everyone stands up to hurry on with their lives. I sit in my seat until the last person shuffles down the aisle, then stand to grab my bag from the overhead bin.
Making my way into the airport, I pause and glance around nervously. My father said he would meet me at the gate, but I don't know what he looks like. As I glance around nervously, it takes a few passes before finally spotting a sign with my name, Riley, written on it being held up above the crowd.
Easing my way through my fellow travelers, I shuffle toward the sign until the person holding it comes into view. Before me stands a tall man in his mid-forties. His jaw is strong, and light stubble covers his face. My eyes widen in shock as I look into his. I’ve seen them before, every day when I look in the mirror. They’re bright and round and the same electric violet-blue as mine. It’s a rare color, not one I've noticed on another person before.
"She has your eyes, Mark," a soft feminine voice gasps beside us.
Turning my head toward the voice, I take in the elegant woman about the same age as the man standing beside her. Her auburn hair falls in waves to her shoulders. Her eyes sparkle in a dazzling shade of hazel green. She has striking olive skin. She’s above average height for a female, with a sunny smile. I want to ask about her, but people I don’t know make me nervous. She must notice the curiosity in my eyes, because she gives an answer to my thoughts.
"I'm Leanne," she introduces herself kindly.
I nod my understanding as the name rings a bell. My father's wife. Social services told me about her, but I didn't realize she’d be here at the airport. I assumed she wouldn’t want anything to do with me since she isn't responsible for me.
I gaze returns to the man at her side.
"You-you’re my f-f-father?" I stumble over my words as I question the man with my eyes, even though I know the answer.
"Yeah, I guess I am." His brow wrinkles in concern as he assesses me, and I wonder if he even wants me here.
I don't want him to catch on to how vulnerable this whole situation makes me feel. Instead, my attention shifts to my old worn shoes. An awkward silence hangs between us until Leanne suggests we go find my bag.
While following them to the baggage claim area, I work up the nerve to explain to them I don’t have any checked luggage.
“T-t-this is m-m-mine,” I whisper, gripping the duct tape covered strap of my backpack tighter.
My father’s eyes dart from mine to the warn bag and back again. His brow furrows again “Don’t you have more bags?”
After simply shaking my head, his frown deepens, but he doesn’t say anything. The silence becomes too much for me and I drop my head once again, taking deep breaths in a feeble attempt to calm my nerves.
Leanne speaks up again, breaking the silence between my father and me, “Let’s head out, then. We parked the car this way.” I follow them both without a word.
Do these people truly want me here, or did social services force me upon them? I hate the idea of being unwanted. People around me have made me feel useless my whole life, either ignoring me or telling me they wish they could get rid of me. Maybe these people will be different. I want someone to want me around.
"Riley?" My father's voice pulls me from my pity party.
Peering into their expectant faces, I realize I missed something. Having no idea how to respond, I twist my hands anxiously in front of me.
As the moment stretches, my father repeats himself, which gives me a reprieve from guessing. "I asked if you’re hungry. We could stop for burgers on the way home?"
Could this be a test? If I say yes and he doesn't want to spend the money on me or stop for food, I’ve annoyed him. If I say no and they’re hungry, I’ve ticked them off because they wanted to stop and I didn't. Since I haven't eaten in about two days my stomach audibly growls with the chance of food in the near future, then twists when I can't come up with the right answer to his question.
I clutch my chest, trying to help air reach my lungs as panic rises. My fight or flight instincts kick in, and I freeze in my tracks, allowing them to walk ahead without me. Leanne notices immediately. Her eyebrows go up in surprise, and I stiffen as the two of them stop and walk back to where I stopped.
"Riley, it's okay," she assures me in a calming voice one might use when dealing with a frightened animal. "It isn't a big deal one way or the other. How about this? Your dad and I are pretty hungry, so we're going to stop for something to eat on the way to the house. If you're hungry, we’ll get something for you as well. If not, then that’s okay, too."
I stare at her for a few seconds, trying to decide if she’s being sincere. This reflects something normal parents would do. Offer to buy their child, or stepchild, food, but since I don’t come from a typical household, nothing about my life is normal.
Finally deciding the possibility of food outweighs the risk of their anger, I take a deep breath for courage and give them a minuscule nod. They both brighten with my acceptance before turning to continue our trek to the parking garage.
I follow my father and Leanne up to a cherry red SUV. It seems brand new and really expensive. My father puts my bag in the trunk, and I slide in the back seat. No one really talks on the way to the fast food place. For me, the silence stems from my lack of things to say or fear of saying the wrong thing. Maybe they don't know what to say either.
According to social services, they know a little bit about what happened. No one knows the full story, not even the police. Telling anyone would be the same as signing my own death certificate. I’ve learned two extremely important things over my seventeen years: never trust anyone and keep my mouth shut.
Rules to live by in my world.
We stop at a drive-thru, fast food restaurant, and they ask again if I'd like anything.
"They have great burgers here," Leanne coaxes softly. "Your dad and I always get their burgers and fries with a soda. It's the best around. Would you like to try one?"
"T-t-that would b-b-be nice," I tell her. "T-t-thank you."
Neither of them yells or curses at me, and I allow my body to relax slightly in my seat. I spend the rest of the ride taking in my new surroundings.
The palm trees and blue skies captivate me unlike the gray skies and green mush of Washington. I welcome the drastic transition.
When we finally pull up outside their house, my jaw nearly hits the floorboard of the car. The house reminds me of daydreams I would have when reading my favorite novels. Gray stones make up the outside of the extravagant three-story home. Summer flowers border a wraparound deck. The driveway leads to a four-car garage, but rather than parking inside, we park in front of it. I find this odd because aren't garages for parking? After exiting the car my dad grabs my small backpack, shocking me with his casualness. He and Leanne head for the front door to the house. Shaking off the confusion, I rush to catch up.
Once I reach the porch, my dad holds the front door open for me. Stepping inside, I end up in a large foyer. To the right of the foyer a large archway opens to an elegant dining room with cream-colored walls. In the center of the room sits a large, black, wooden dining table with seating for twelve. Hardwood floors with a massive cream and black rug take up most of the dining room. A black hutch with an ivory set of china and crystal glasses inside on display resides in the corner of the room. I'm afraid to set foot in the room, for fear of breaking something or messing up the sheer perfection.
To avoid the dining room, I shift my attention to the left of the foyer where a sitting room with an oversized charcoal fireplace on the main wall resides. A black coffee table in the same design as the dining table is positioned between the fireplace and a cream leather couch. On either side of the coffee table are matching cream-colored love seats. The wall color mimics the dining room, and the art hanging up matches the pieces hanging in the dining room.
I plan to avoid this room as well.
My dad and Leanne lead me through a short hallway, past a set of stairs, toward an elegant open room. On the far left hangs a flat screen TV, large enough to cover nearly the entire soft beige wall. An oversized U-shaped, chocolate brown sectional with a matching ottoman surrounds the TV. The largest wall, made fully of glass, opens the room up with a view of a huge, fenced-in backyard with a pool.
To the right of the room, a state of the art kitchen done in reds, blacks, and whites reminds me of an old-fashioned fifties kitchen except for the brand new black appliances. A dining nook holds a white table with eight matching chairs.
So far, the whole house appears spotless, but still manages to have the feel of being lived in. A few papers are scattered across the kitchen counter, someone’s water bottle sits on the table in the small nook, and notes and pictures hang on to the fridge with random magnets.
"Well, Riley," my dad says from behind me, causing my heart to skip a beat as I jump and spin around. "This is it. I’ll give you a full tour later, but down here is the kitchen, sitting room, dining room, living room, study, which is down the hall from the sitting room, and a bathroom, which is the door we passed in the hall, across from the staircase. The room right there"—he points to a door in the corner of the family room, before continuing—"is the master bedroom. Leanne and I are the only ones with a room on this floor. The top floor is our game room. It has a TV just like this one, but there’s a DVD player, and any movie you could think of on DVD is probably up there. There are multiple game consoles up there, too. There's also a pool table and an entire wall of books if you're into any of those things. Jaxon and his friends hang out up there a lot."
"J-J-Jaxon?" I ask, the name ringing a bell, but I can’t quite place it.
Rather than my father answering me, Leanne speaks up, "Yep, my son. He’s twenty-one and goes to the university in the next town over." She beams proudly. "He normally stays in an apartment near campus, but he decided to come home for the summer. He says the food's better here." She scoffs.
I give her a small tilt of the lips and briefly wonder if I’ll be doing the cooking here, too. Back home, the cooking and cleaning was my job. My good mood fades as thoughts of home invade my mind. Everything in California is a complete turnaround from Washington. My dad and Leanne haven't yelled once. The house doesn't stink of stale cigarettes and alcohol. No stains cover the walls or floors, no random strangers passed out in corners of the rooms. No needles or burnt spoons lay out in the open. Hopefully, things really will be better here. I'm still skeptical, though.
When I don’t respond to Leanne’s information about her son, she and my father go about settling in, placing the car keys in a decorative bowl on the kitchen island, grabbing paper plates and napkins, and taking their jackets off. Leanne takes my dad’s jacket from him and disappears down the hall for a few moments until I hear a door opening then closing.
While Leanne puts the coats away, my father places the burgers and fries onto the paper plates and puts the straws in the soda cups. Once Leanne returns, they silently grab their plates and sit at the small table. When they look up at me expectantly, I follow their lead, gently taking my plate and cup and following them to the table. When they start eating, I do also. I try to eat slowly, but my empty stomach calls out for more. Before I realize it, my burger is half gone. I haven't eaten anything but raw ramen in a long time, so this is food heaven.
At the sound of the front door opening, I nearly choke on my burger. Loud voices float down the hall, getting closer by the second. I jump to my feet as I struggle to swallow the last bite of food in my mouth. My hands shake, and I hug my arms around my body to help control them while my breath comes out in short pants.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and a small yelp escapes my lips at the contact. Scurrying backward, I press my back against the wall. Squeezing my eyes closed and turning my head to the side, I prepare for the blow.