by Nicole Hart
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 2 ~ 12 Years Later
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Deleted Scene: Just a Glimpse
To My Readers
Acknowledgements
Also by Nicole Hart
Hush
Copyright © 2017 Nicole Hart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form-except in the case of brief quotations-without written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Switzer Editing
Cover Design by Wicked by Design
Formatting by Integrity Formatting
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 2 ~ 12 Years Later
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Deleted Scene: Just a Glimpse
To My Readers
Acknowledgements
Also by Nicole Hart
Dedicated to those who were forced
into being secret keepers.
You didn’t ask for it.
The blame is not yours.
Don’t let evil steal your self-worth
a moment longer.
To Tasha, Sherry, and Jerry
Fuck him.
I stared at the paper riddled with lies that I’d found folded beneath my bed.
“What I did for Thanksgiving.”
Stories of food and family lined the page. But that’s all it was, just a story—a fabrication. How do you tell your sixth-grade class the truth about your Thanksgiving? How do you tell your teacher that you sat on the couch without electricity, engulfed in darkness? Your stepfather in front of the old, brick fireplace, sucking up the little bit of heat from the embers with the polished rifle placed across his lap. His promise to shoot your mother in the head if you made a sound playing on a constant loop in your mind. You spent hours begging your younger sister, with your eyes, not to move. Because after all…you had been warned.
How do you tell your truth?
I wadded the sheet of paper and shoved it back under the stain-covered mattress in my cold bedroom. Burying it, just like I did everything else.
The school bus came to a screeching halt at our stop. I grabbed my stack of books and pressed them to my chest as I stood, trying to hold my jacket closed since the zipper had broken last winter. I walked behind my sister, Sara, down the narrow aisle, hoping to avoid eye contact with the other students near the front. The rich kids always seemed to look down on me. I felt their disgust as I moved past them—maybe it was all in my imagination, maybe it wasn’t. But there was no denying the quiet giggle I’d heard.
I stepped off the bus and gasped when the bitter-cold air ripped through my body. My fingers stung as I tightly gripped my books. I hated that I didn’t have a backpack like all the other kids and was forced to carry my stuff in my hands. It might have been petty, but it bothered me.
“I don’t know why you won’t just wear them.” Sara rolled her eyes and shook her head, pulling the socks she wore over her hands up to her elbows.
“Shut up,” I muttered as we started our path down the driveway in the frigid breeze.
“Well, it’s better than freezing. Why do you care so much what those assholes think?”
The truth was, I didn’t know. What I did know was that I envied a nine-year-old. She may have been three years younger than me, but she was strong beyond her years. Although she still worked on the wise part, she had strength in spades.
“I don’t.” My fib rolled off my tongue.
“Wanna race?” she asked, ignoring my blatant lie.
“Sure.” I grinned and started to run before she got the chance. I knew running would warm me up before we made it to the house.
“Cheater.” She giggled as we ran side by side, both of us clutching our books against our chests.
I got a little nauseous when our old, red-wood home came into view, the driveway long and winding. I concentrated on my feet moving, trying to escape the memories of the things that happened there. Because at that exact moment, I just wanted some shelter from this icy December day. It wouldn’t be much warmer inside, but at least the wind wouldn’t dig into my skin like spikes of barbed wire. So that was a plus, at least.
My mom was off work, and I didn’t see his raggedy old car in the driveway. Letting out a sigh of relief, I reached for the wooden gate. The chipped, red paint and rusted metal latch made it hard to slide open, especially with fingers stiff from the cold. But I jerked it open seconds before Sara darted in front of me, making her way into the house with a giggle.
“You’re such a brat.” I chuckled with a smirk, letting the gate slam behind me. I followed behind her to the side door we always used. My mom sat at the kitchen table, staring at a tattered, spiral notebook with lines of worry marring her face. She rubbed her temple with one frail hand while she flicked her cigarette into the ashtray with the other.
“Hey, girls, did you have a good day?” She peeked up at us with a weak grin crossing her lips. But her smile didn’t meet her eyes, and the worry overpowered any semblance of happiness.
I hated that she was always so apprehensive—about everything: her job, things we needed, food for the family. But most of all, she worried about him.
“Good.” I faked a smile and set my books on the old, wooden table, not wanting to give her anything else to worry about. The cold was too much to take. I furiously rubbed my hands together and blew hot air into my cupped palms to warm the tips.
“We have a field trip this
Friday.” Sara beamed. She sat on my mom’s lap and wrapped her puny arms around her neck.
“You do?” Her eyebrows crinkled, and she focused on balancing the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.
“Yep.”
“Where to?” Mom tried to hide the added weight of stress just thrust upon her shoulders by lilting her tone with feigned interest.
“Some museum.” Sara shrugged, then stuck her tongue out as she concentrated on pulling the crinkled permission slip out of her coat pocket. “We have to bring five dollars and a sack lunch,” she added while she opened the sheet of paper and straightened it out along the edge of the table.
“Okay.” Mom bit the inside of her cheek, her attention returning to the notebook in front of her.
Bills.
“Maybe you should tell Duane to get a job,” I mumbled under my breath while staring at the almost-bare pantry in search of a snack.
She took a long drag of her cigarette. “Don’t start.” Her voice was nothing more than a pitiful whisper as she pulled the nicotine into her lungs.
I didn’t. I just shook my head and continued to glare at a can of beans in the cupboard. I hated him. I really did. He made our lives miserable. We never knew what kind of day it would be when he was home. And this time of year was always worse than the rest—although I didn’t understand why. I thought people were supposed to be happy around the holidays. However, the things that went on within these walls were anything but normal. But they were for us, I suppose.
I knew it wasn’t right, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I was just a kid. I was grateful for the times he stayed away for a day or two. But I hated that my mom paced the floors in his absence, the old hardwood creaked with every step as she patrolled from one window to the next—watching for headlights, waiting for him. She worried about him while he spent his days and nights doing God knew what. When he’d return from his mini-vacations, he’d pass out with bloodshot eyes. But really, his whole life was a vacation. He never held down employment, while my mom spent the majority of her life at some dead-end job, taking any overtime she could get just to cover the bills. He did what he wanted, when he wanted to do it. And no one told him any differently.
The sound of tires screeching on gravel broke me away from my thoughts.
Speak of the devil.
“I’m going to do my homework.” The nervousness in Sara’s voice was obvious. She slid out of our mother’s lap and shuffled her feet quickly out of the kitchen, toward the bedroom we shared.
The door flew open and slammed against the wall in a thunderous boom, causing me to jump, my stomach immediately turning into knots.
“Who the fuck left the gate open?” Duane rumbled, his heavy boots echoed with every step.
A shiver ran up my spine when he came into view. I watched his hands clench into fists at his sides and the knuckles turn white. His copper hair was wild, almost as wild as his blazing, evil green eyes. The sight of them usually sent me running as fast as my legs would carry me.
In one fleeting moment, I came to the realization that what happened next was the result of my carelessness. It was my fault. I was the last one inside. I scolded myself for not paying closer attention to my actions. Why hadn’t I remembered to shut the gate? Not that there was a reason to have it latched. We lived in the middle of nowhere. We didn’t have a dog that would escape. And there obviously wasn’t anything around that wanted in. Not here. It was just an excuse for him to get angry and look for someone to punish.
My mom stared at me with wide eyes and enlarged pupils, silently asking me why I had done it. I knew better. She didn’t have to utter a word for me to understand her accusation.
I apologized silently with pleading eyes, my mouth remaining closed.
“I did. I’m sorry, it was an accident.” Her voice shook while she accepted the blame. And then she put her cigarette out and braced herself. Duane stormed across the kitchen and slapped her on the back of the head with an open hand. My mom’s hair flew in front of her face, and an echoing thud rang out when her forehead slammed against the table from the impact.
“Mom,” I croaked. Desperation seeped through my veins as he caught my gaze.
A maniacal grin spread across his face as he started toward me. I was convinced that man had the devil inside him. I braced myself for whatever happened next, although I wanted nothing more than to take off and never look back.
To my surprise, he brushed past me, and the smell of liquor radiated off him as he left the kitchen. I turned in his direction and gawked as the Christmas tree crashed to the ground with the weight of his boot. The water in the tattered bucket we used to keep it from wilting toppled over, pooling around the lights that weren’t lit.
“Stupid bitch,” he grumbled and stormed into the bedroom they shared, slamming the door behind him.
“Go to your room, Rachel. Please.” Her voice shook with desperation as she stood and walked past me.
I did as I was told, staring at my feet as I shuffled to my bedroom where Sara waited. I couldn’t look up. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was tired of everything I was forced to witness.
Christmas was in three weeks, and Duane was right on schedule. His gifts were already being given out.
He gave us fear.
He gave us misery.
He gave us dread.
The gifts that just kept giving.
Cheep. Cheep. Cheep. Cheep.
When I heard the familiar sound outside my window, I glanced over at the red glow of my alarm clock.
10:45.
Jackson was right on time. I slid out of the queen-size bed I shared with Sara, making sure not to wake her. But the truth was, she slept like a bear, and I knew she wouldn’t budge. I slid my feet into the boots I kept at the end of the bed. I knew I was safe from my mom and Duane. I could hear his snores from the other side of the house. He was coming down from his latest bender, no doubt. And I’d seen my mom take a pain pill before bed, so she was down for the night. She’d told me she had a headache—considering the hit she’d taken just a few hours ago, I was surprised it wasn’t worse.
As soon as I lifted the old window, the brisk night air hit me in the face, momentarily stealing my breath. I straddled the windowsill and carefully slid down until my feet hit solid ground. I quietly shut the window before I turned my back to the house and saw Jackson’s shadow as he ran into the darkness.
I followed him into the overgrown field and made my way to our spot. In the middle, surrounded by brush and weeds, sat a tiny, dilapidated shed Jackson had built from different sizes of wood he’d salvaged from random places. It barely kept itself upright, but it was my escape. It was our refuge from the lives we were forced to live. Jackson had the idea over a year ago when he had grown tired of his parents fighting. His father was a raging alcoholic who took his anger out on his son more times than he could count. His mom took kindly to sneaking men inside the house while his dad got plastered at the bar. Jackson’s life was anything but normal, which was probably what drew us to one another. I had known him since elementary school. We rode the bus together, but Jackson was two years older than me and went to a different school now. He was in middle school while I was still stuck in the intermediate building—this was the only time we saw each other anymore.
“Your bird calls are ridiculous,” I whispered with a giggle and bent my head down far enough to walk through the makeshift door.
“My bird calls kick ass.” He gave me a wink and held his hands in front of the battery-operated heater he’d brought from his garage. It was a memento of a time long gone when his dad had taken him camping as a child—there wasn’t a chance that anyone would notice it missing.
“If you say so.” Giggling, I sat on the musty blanket across from Jackson.
We sat in silence as he proceeded to carve a stick to a sharp point with his pocket knife. He shined his flashlight toward it and inspected his work. Boys were weird.
A rustling sound behind me
caused my body to tremble, certain we had been caught and I was about to be dragged out of here by my hair.
“Calm down, it’s just Danny.” Jackson shook his head, irritated by my paranoia.
I peered over my shoulder to see Danny duck his head low through the makeshift doorway. He wore a heavy leather jacket and his dirty-blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail.
“What’s up, fuckers,” he whispered as if anyone could hear us way out here.
“Hey, man.” Jackson spoke but didn’t make eye contact. Keeping his attention on the stick he continued to sharpen, he blew the dust into the cold, night air.
“Anybody thirsty?” Danny pulled half of a six-pack out from under his jacket.
“Where’d you get that?” Jackson gave a half-hearted chuckle because we all knew that Danny’s parents didn’t drink. They had plenty of habits, but booze wasn’t one of them.
“Your garage.” A devious laugh escaped his lips, and he tossed a beer in Jackson’s direction.
“Liar,” I insinuated, staring between the two of them.
“Your garage was open, and your pops wasn’t around, so I grabbed them from the fridge.” He opened the can and took a hearty gulp. “Don’t worry, man, no one saw me. He won’t even know they’re missing.” Danny attempted to sound convincing before he tipped the beer to his lips and finished it in one continuous chug.
Jackson just stared at his stick, his fingers gripping the alcohol. We both knew his dad would notice, and Jackson would pay for it. Part of me wanted to punch Danny in the face for the pain his little stunt would cause Jackson. But Danny was harmless—he didn’t know any better. I was the only one who got the details about the abuse he suffered. And I had to keep my mouth shut.
“Fuck it,” Jackson mumbled before cracking the can open and taking a long swig.
“You want a drink, Rach?” Danny extended his arm in my direction, holding the last can.
“Sure.” I had never tasted beer before. I was nervous but didn’t want to look like a chicken in front of them. Bringing the aluminum to my lips, I inhaled the sour smell and tried to prevent my nose from crinkling. I took a tiny sip and wanted to spit it right back out. It was bitter and foamy. And disgusting. I swallowed what I had in my mouth and then handed it to Jackson.
