The word seemed to hit a nerve. He stopped and stared into her eyes. “I’m not a pervert,” he said, his eyes flashing.
“Help!” she shrieked. “Someone help me!” Someone would hear her. Someone would have to hear—
The man gripped her shoulders and shook her, knocking the air from her lungs. He threw her to the mattress and clamped his hand against her mouth again. “Yell again and I’ll kill you. We clear on that?”
She nodded.
He pinned her down and kicked open her legs. She lay still, knowing it wasn’t only futile to keep fighting, it was dangerous. Maybe if she let him have his way, he wouldn’t be angry afterward and would just let her go.
She squeezed her eyes shut and made herself go limp, breathing in sour sweat and motor oil. Choking back a sob, she forced her mind to wander to some distant place. She swore to herself that if she made it out alive, she would never, ever sleep with a man again, especially for money. She’d had enough: the constant disgust she felt for herself, the attacks, the flat-out ugliness of it all.
Suddenly someone rapped loudly on the cab’s window.
The man’s eyes widened. Apparently her screams had been heard.
Cursing, the man rolled off her. She clawed her way into the front seat, then opened the door and lowered herself out of the rig. Squinting against the blaring sun, she realized several people had been drawn by her screams. Other truck drivers, random gas station customers. A woman clutching a screaming little boy. They all stood several feet from the truck, staring.
The man who had knocked on the door reached out a hand to help her to the pavement, but she dodged his touch.
A floorboard in the small bedroom creaked, drawing her from the dream. Beneath the blanket, her eyes sprang open.
Where am I? she wondered, her mind scrambling to get her bearings. Then she remembered. She was at her childhood house. In her brother’s bedroom.
And . . . she had heard something. Or else it had been the dream. Yes, probably the dream.
But she had to be sure. Reluctantly, she pushed the blanket away from her face.
A figure was looming over her.
Her heart caught in her chest and she screamed.
CHAPTER 7
ALLIE SAT, SLUMPED, in the passenger side of the Camry with her eyes squeezed shut. The portly caseworker from the Department of Children and Family Services was navigating the twisting, country roads at a terrifying speed.
The windows were down and Allie’s long, dark hair whipped around her face, stinging her cheeks. She pulled at the cotton shirt that was plastered to her skin with sweat. It was so hot and humid that her sweat even seemed to be sweating.
“You okay?” the caseworker asked.
“I’d be more okay if you’d just slow down,” Allie muttered, her eyes still clamped tight. “You drive like an idiot.”
“Oh heck, I could drive these roads blindfolded,” the woman said and continued to speed. “Sorry about the heat. My AC crapped out a couple of hours ago.”
The woman told Allie that she’d gotten very lucky. That an old woman—the “Cadillac” of foster mothers, she’d called her—was going to take her in and foster her until they could find her a “forever home.”
Obviously, the woman didn’t know her, because Allie had never been lucky. Good luck wasn’t a luxury that was in reach of girls like her.
They’d driven for ten minutes or so when the woman finally pumped the brakes and brought the car to a steady crawl. Allie opened her eyes and watched as they turned onto a smooth concrete drive that led to a sprawling ranch-style house painted a pale yellow with blue trim. The lawn was greener than any lawn she’d ever seen. It was so perfect-looking it almost looked fake.
She sunk even further into the worn vinyl seat and closed her eyes again. She knew that the second the car stopped, she should run . . . but she knew she wouldn’t. She had no fight left in her. She was hollow and weak, and all she wanted to do was curl up somewhere and sleep. She couldn’t care less what happened to her anymore.
She hadn’t cared when the deputies removed her from her childhood house. She hadn’t cared in the emergency room when they poked and prodded her and the town sheriff asked her an insane number of stupid questions about her brother and the murders. She didn’t care that she was supposedly getting a foster mother. She just didn’t care. None of it even seemed real, so why should she? All she cared about was closing her eyes for a very long time.
The car shuddered as the engine cut off. “Here we are!” the woman practically shouted. “Try not to screw this up. Some of these homes are downright scary. And let me tell you, Miss Bitty is as good as it gets. Caring, nurturing, generous. She’s God’s gift to foster kids. Like I said, you really lucked out.”
Allie opened her eyes. She gazed at the plush, well-manicured bushes that lined the front of the house, the purple hydrangeas and blood-red roses in little friendly-looking painted planter boxes that hung from the whitewashed porch.
A man pushed a lawn mower along the side of the house, while another carried a toolbox and some fencing to the backyard. Still another was sitting in a rocking chair on the far side of the wraparound porch, reading a newspaper.
The caseworker got out of the car and shouted a quick hello. Then she bent over and poked her head back into the car. “C’mon, Allie. Put on your best face and let’s go. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”
Waiting on the porch was an old lady with long gray hair piled on top of her head. She was barefoot and wore a sleeveless top and white cotton pants. She looked harmless—certainly not the type who ate homeless teens—although Allie knew better than to stake much on appearances.
Allie mustered all her energy to drag herself out of the car.