CHAPTER THREE

 

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"LAST NIGHT CAN never happen again, Laney," Alma Brill whispered.

She always kept her voice at the same low, barely there level whether her husband was in the house or not. The less attention she drew to herself the better. A lesson she'd learned the hard way.

"Good thing Munch wasn't home when you got here."

Delaney poked at the bowl of oatmeal—thick and lumpy and totally unappetizing—keeping her head down. The only time they could breathe was when Munch wasn't around. Even then, they lived in fear, looking at the clock. Wondering when he'd walk through the door. Lord and master.

More like a jailer. There were no bars on the windows but make no mistake. This house was a prison.

Delaney wished she had the nerve—the backbone—to stand up and protest. She was so tired of walking on eggshells. Tired of suppressing every thought. Sick and tired of hiding her true self. Or rather, who she used to be.

Happy. Full of life. Eager to see what new adventure life had in store.

Did that girl still exist? She didn't know. Not anymore. God, she hoped so. But she'd never find out locked inside the walls she had—from necessity—built around herself.

Seven years. Ever since Henry, call me Munch, Brill had come into their lives. A whirlwind romance and suddenly Alma Pope had a new husband. And Delaney, a stepfather.

In his late thirties, he was a man of average height, but powerful, with thick muscles and a handsome face. Thick, dark hair and dark eyes. At first, Munch seemed like a dream. Until—with the flip of an invisible switch—he turned into their worst nightmare.

Bright beyond her years, Delaney still longed for a father figure, someone to replace the man who disappeared from her life—first through divorce, then, a year later, when he died in a car accident. Delaney's mother wanted to feel wanted by a man.

The Popes—mother and daughter—welcomed Munch with open arms. Munch, once Alma and Delaney were moved into his home, revealed his true self.

A controlling bully. A drinker. An abuser. More than once, Alma would hide from the world until the bruise on her face faded enough to hide with strategically applied makeup.

And—though Delaney didn't understand at the time—Munch Brill turned out to be a man with no compunction about grooming his stepdaughter to one day share his bed.

During the first few years, Munch showed his affection in ways that wouldn't raise any red flags. Hugs mostly. A few quick kisses—always on the mouth. Delaney didn't feel anything was wrong. Why would she? Why would she balk when he insisted she sit on his lap while they watched television after dinner?

She was his favorite little girl.

How Delaney had grown to hate that phrase. She hated the way Munch would tuck her into bed at night, the thin cotton nightgown no protection as his big, rough hands brushed against her vulnerable, budding body.

And the way Munch would lean close, to brush a kiss across her lips. The smell of his breath—rank with stale whiskey—making her stomach turn.

Seven long years. Delaney couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she knew something wasn't right. When she figured out Munch's so-called affections weren't normal. However, ever since, she lived in dread. When would he move beyond the leering looks? When would he grow tired of sickening bedtime touches and wet-lipped pecks?

Delaney knew the day was coming. And soon. Munch seemed fixated on her next birthday. June tenth. Six months from today.

Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.

Not a real, honest to goodness, man/woman kiss. Munch always grinned when he said the words. And winked. As if he carried a secret that he'd soon share only with her.

Munch considered Delaney to be his. And made certain boys stayed away. The baggy dresses and thick glasses materialized long before the emergence of her body's first curve.

"Keep your head down and your smiles to yourself." Munch spent the entire summer after he married her mother indoctrinating Delaney into the way she was expected to act from now on.

"Boys only want one thing. Since you'll never give it to them, no point in getting their hopes up. Right?"

Delaney was too young, too innocent to know what Munch meant. But she learned. Not from the boys in her class. But from the man who—in theory—was supposed to keep her safe.

Delaney shuddered again, this time drawing her mother's attention.

"Aren't you feeling well?" Alma put a cool hand to Delaney's forehead. "Did you catch a cold walking home in the rain?"

"People don't get sick from a little rain, Mom."

"Are you sure?" Alma frowned, checking Delaney's throat for swollen glands."

"Old wives' tale."

"So smart," Alma touched Delaney's cheek, a brief wisp of pride coloring the typically dull gray of her eyes. "However, since I'm an old wife, cut me some slack. Stick out your tongue."

Rather than argue, she did as directed. As her mother peered into her mouth, Delaney sighed.

In truth, Alma Brill was a wife, but she wasn't old. The lines around her mouth, the dark circles under eyes. They weren't from the passage of time, but from living a downtrodden, stress-ridden existence. One of her own making.

Leaving wasn't possible. Alma tried. Taking Delaney, she headed out of town. They didn't get far. And the price she paid—a broken arm and two missing teeth—was nothing compared to what Munch told her he'd do if she ever tried it again. He'd never raised a hand to Delaney. But he could. Yes, he could.

The arm healed. The teeth were replaced. But Alma never forgot. Munch never let her.

Any fight left in her mother was gone. In seven long, unrelenting years, she'd become a shell of her former self. A thin, cowed, timid shell. And Delaney—had followed suit.

Like herself, Delaney could barely remember Alma any other way. She tried to picture her mother's smile but came up blank. God, how sad was that?

Who are you? Delaney wondered as her mother went back to scrubbing the kitchen counter. Who am I?

Losing herself was the most frightening part. Most of the time, Delaney felt invisible. Her classmates looked right through her. Or—if one of them took the time to notice—they ridiculed her. Called her names. Cornered her in an alley intent on…

Delaney would never know how far Pete Doran and his goon squad might have gone if Travis Forsythe hadn't intervened. And she was grateful. Truly.

However—for some unfathomable reason—she also felt a spark of resentment that the great hero-worshiped athlete would deign to come off his pedestal long enough to help poor Delaney Pope.

Some girls—the ones she heard giggling in the halls—would have swooned just at the thought of Travis coming to their rescue. Delaney wasn't one of them.

And then he had to intrude on the only thing that made her happy. The one part of her life she had to look forward to.

Her music. Her sanctuary.

Travis Forsythe might charm the rest of the student body with his smile, but Delaney wanted him to leave her alone. When he'd looked at her—really looked—she felt an odd rush through her blood she couldn't explain. And didn't want to analyze.

For what seemed like forever, Delaney wished for someone to realize she wasn't simply a shadow that flitted unnoticed along the periphery of their life. She dreamed of finding a friend. That person was not—could not be—Travis.

Even if Travis was interested—which was so far beyond the realm of likely, Delaney wondered why she bothered to speculate—Munch would have a fit if a boy started hanging around.

A long-forgotten flicker of rebellion tried to push past Delaney's hopelessness, only to be snuffed out when her mother set a brown paper bag on the table.

"Here's your lunch, Laney. And remember. Munch will be home early today. So, don't dawdle after school."

Delaney took the bag—the same kind she took to school day after day. Year after year. Plain, boring. Inside and out. Just like her.

A boy like Travis Forsythe could shape his own future. The possibilities were limitless.

A girl like Delaney Pope?

Something had to change—and soon—or she wouldn't have a future. Delaney's options were few. If she left, Alma would pay the price. Unfortunately, convincing her mother to run again wouldn't be easy.

She could submit. Just the thought made the vomit rise in the throat. Delaney swallowed. Or…? She'd always stopped before she let herself finish the sentence. Once she did, she knew she couldn't take the thought back.

Delaney hoped, when the time came, she had the nerve to do what she had to do. Escape wasn't possible. Submission, unthinkable.

But death? Maybe.

Rising, she picked up her books and paper bag, telling her mother goodbye.

A welcome calm settled over Delaney. If she was given no other choice? Yes. She could live with death.