Chapter 1: The Kitchen
The first thing I heard when I came home from school was my mother screaming my name.
Not calling me.
Screaming.
“Emily, run!””
My backpack slipped from my shoulder before I even reached the kitchen.
I froze in the doorway.
Dad had one fist twisted into Mom’s hair. Her cheek was pressed against the edge of the sink while water blasted over her hands. A glass lay shattered across the tile floor, glittering beneath the kitchen light.
“Ethan, stop!”” Mom cried.
Dad jerked her head backward.
“You should keep your mouth shut, Sarah.””
My heart slammed against my ribs.
For one second, I couldn't move.
This wasn't the man who packed my lunch when I forgot to make it. This wasn't the man who stood in the driveway every Saturday morning washing his truck while humming old songs.
This was someone else.
Someone I had never been brave enough to imagine.
“Dad?””
His head snapped toward me.
Mom's eyes found mine.
They were wide with terror.
“Emily, run!””
Dad shoved her back toward the sink.
I dropped my backpack and rushed forward.
“Let her go!””
“Stay out of this,” Dad said.
I wrapped both arms around his waist.
“Get off her!””
He smelled like coffee and cigarette smoke.
For a moment, I actually thought I could pull him away.
Then his elbow slammed backward into my shoulder.
I stumbled but held on.
“Let go of me!””
“No!””
Dad twisted around.
His face was red.
I saw his hand rise.
Then everything went white.
The side of his palm struck my face so hard that my feet left the floor.
I hit the kitchen tiles beside my backpack.
My ears rang.
I stared at the ceiling.
I didn't cry.
I couldn't.
Mom screamed.
“Emily!””
She threw herself between us.
Dad grabbed her hair again.
“Don't you dare!””
“Dad, please!””
He dragged Mom backward.
She clawed at his wrist.
“Emily, go!””
I pushed myself onto my elbows.
My cheek burned.
My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't make them work.
Mom looked at me over Dad's shoulder.
There was something in her expression I had never seen before.
Not just fear.
Desperation.
“Go upstairs!””
Dad shoved her away.
She crashed against the counter.
I scrambled to my feet.
I ran.
Behind me, I heard Dad shouting.
“Emily!””
I took the stairs two at a time.
My bedroom door slammed behind me.
I locked it.
Then I pushed my desk against it.
My breathing came in short, painful bursts.
I stood there with my back against the door, listening.
Something crashed downstairs.
Mom cried out.
Dad shouted something I couldn't understand.
I covered my mouth.
I wanted to call 911.
My phone.
I reached into my pocket.
Nothing.
I had left it charging beside my bed that morning.
I ran across the room.
The phone wasn't there.
Then I remembered.
Mom had hidden an old phone beneath my mattress months ago.
At the time, I thought it was strange.
She'd only said, “If I ever tell you to use it, don't ask questions. Just use it.””
My fingers dug beneath the mattress.
Nothing.
I lifted it higher.
There.
A small black phone wrapped in an old T-shirt.
I grabbed it.
Downstairs, Mom screamed again.
“Ethan, you're doing it again!””
Dad's voice boomed through the house.
“Emily!””
I pressed the phone's power button.
The screen flickered.
One number appeared in the contacts.
No name.
Just ten digits.
I stared at it.
Why would Mom hide a phone with only one number?
Something crashed downstairs.
Then silence.
I pressed call.
The line connected almost immediately.
A man's voice answered.
“Hello?””
I swallowed.
“Who is this?””
The man's voice changed.
“Emily?””
My blood turned cold.
“How do you know my name?””
He didn't answer.
Instead, he asked, “Are you safe?””
I looked at my locked bedroom door.
“No.””
“Is your father in the house?””
“Yes.””
“Stay in your room.””
“He's hurting my mom.””
“I know.””
I gripped the phone harder.
“You know?””
“Emily, listen to me carefully.””
A heavy thud shook the hallway.
Dad was coming upstairs.
“Who are you?”” I whispered.
The man took a breath.
“Someone your mother trusted.””
Dad reached my door.
The handle rattled.
“Emily!””
I backed away.
“Open the door!””
The man on the phone said quietly, “Do not open it.””
Dad slammed his fist against the wood.
“Emily, who are you talking to?””
I couldn't answer.
The man said, “I'm already on my way.””
Dad hit the door again.
The frame shook.
“Emily!””
I looked toward my bedroom window.
Blue and red lights suddenly flashed across the glass.
Dad stopped.
For the first time since I'd seen him in the kitchen, there was no anger on his face.
Only fear.
He turned toward the window.
Then he whispered something that made my stomach drop.
“You told them where we live?””
I pressed the phone against my ear.
The man on the other end said only four words.
May you like
“Don't trust your father.””
Then the bedroom door splintered.
