Chapter 1: The Kitchen
The first thing I heard when I came home from school was my mother screaming my name.
The second thing I saw was my father holding her hair over the kitchen sink while cold water ran over her hands.
“Emily, run!””
My backpack slid from my shoulder.
For one frozen second, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
Dad had one fist twisted into Mom's hair. Her cheek was pressed against the edge of the sink, and the faucet was running so hard that water splashed across the counter and soaked the front of her shirt.
“Ethan, stop!”” Mom cried.
Dad's face was red.
“You should learn to keep your mouth shut, Sarah.””
“Dad!””
His head snapped toward me.
I had never been afraid of my father before.
Not really.
He was the man who taught me how to ride a bike. The man who waited outside my classroom when it rained. The man who used to cut my sandwiches into triangles because he said square sandwiches tasted boring.
But the man standing in our kitchen didn't look like that person.
“Let her go,” I said.
My voice sounded smaller than I wanted.
Dad turned back toward Mom.
“You heard me,” he said.
“You should have kept quiet.””
Mom's fingers clawed at the counter.
“Ethan, please.””
I dropped my backpack.
It landed beside the kitchen table with a heavy thud.
Then I ran.
I wrapped both arms around my father's waist and pulled as hard as I could.
“Get off her!””
Dad staggered half a step.
“Emily, don't!””
“Leave my mom alone!””
For a moment, his grip loosened.
Mom twisted away from the sink.
Then Dad looked down at me.
His expression changed.
I felt it before he moved.
“Dad—”
His hand struck my face.
I hit the floor beside my backpack.
There was no dramatic pain at first.
Just shock.
The ceiling tilted above me.
My ears rang.
I stared at the zipper on my backpack as if it were the most important thing in the world.
I couldn't cry.
I couldn't move.
Mom screamed.
“Emily!””
She dropped to her knees beside me.
“Baby, look at me.””
Dad grabbed her arm.
“Get up.””
“Don't touch her!””
Mom shoved him away.
Dad caught her hair again.
“Emily, run!”” Mom screamed.
That broke the spell.
I scrambled backward.
My palms slipped on the tile.
I grabbed my backpack and ran for the stairs.
Behind me, Mom shouted my name.
Then I heard something hit the kitchen floor.
I didn't turn around.
I ran upstairs, slammed my bedroom door, and locked it.
My hands were shaking so badly that I missed the lock twice.
I backed away from the door.
For several seconds, I just stood there.
Then came the sound of footsteps.
Slow.
Heavy.
Coming upstairs.
I looked around my room.
My bed.
My desk.
My bookshelf.
The posters I'd had since middle school.
Everything suddenly looked childish.
Like it belonged to somebody who still believed home was supposed to be safe.
I pressed both hands over my mouth.
The footsteps stopped outside my door.
Then they continued down the hallway.
I waited.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
My breathing finally slowed.
That's when I remembered the phone.
An old phone.
Mom had given it to me months earlier and told me never to ask why.
She'd hidden it underneath my mattress.
I'd thought it was strange.
Now I understood that strange things were sometimes the only things keeping you alive.
I lifted the mattress corner.
There it was.
A scratched black phone wrapped in a plastic bag.
I pulled it out.
The battery was almost dead.
I pressed the power button.
The screen flickered.
One contact.
Only one.
No name.
Just a number.
I stared at it.
Then I heard Mom scream downstairs.
“Emily!””
I nearly dropped the phone.
“Mom?””
Her voice came again.
“Emily, he's doing it again!””
I unlocked the phone.
My thumb hovered over the single number.
Whoever Mom had hidden this phone from, she had hidden it for a reason.
I called.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
A man's voice answered.
“Hello?””
I swallowed.
“My name is Emily.””
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“Emily?””
“Yes.””
“Where's your mother?””
“She’s downstairs.””
“Is she hurt?””
I looked at my bedroom door.
“Yes.””
Another silence.
Then the man asked, very quietly, “Is Ethan there?””
My stomach tightened.
“How do you know my dad's name?””
“Emily, listen to me carefully.””
Something in his voice made me sit down.
“Are you safe?””
“I locked my door.””
“Good. Do not open it.””
“Who are you?””
“I'm someone your mother trusted.””
Another crash came from downstairs.
Mom cried out.
I covered my mouth again.
“Please,” I whispered.
“You have to help her.””
“I am.””
“How?””
“Stay on the phone.””
I heard movement downstairs.
Then Dad's voice.
“Emily!””
I froze.
“Who are you talking to?””
I didn't answer.
His footsteps started toward the stairs.
The man on the phone said, “Emily, lock your window too.””
I rushed across the room.
“Why?””
“Because if your father realizes who you called, he may try to stop you from leaving.””
My fingers fumbled with the window latch.
Then the bedroom door shook.
Once.
Twice.
Dad's voice came through the wood.
“Open the door.””
I backed away.
“Emily, who are you talking to?””
I held the phone against my ear.
The man whispered one sentence that made the blood drain from my face.
“Your mother didn't tell you what happened before you were born, did she?””
May you like
The door shook again.
And then Dad started pounding.
