But I was done trying to wake her up, to make her see. To save her.
The only person I could save was myself.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, glancing up at me. “You better not be going out to see any boys, you little whore!”
“I’ll be back later.” I walked toward the door, determined, ignoring his question and his snide remark.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
His words stopped my progress toward the door. I turned back as he lit a cigarette, watching me. He shook the match out and the motion recalled the memory of him hitting me—hitting her—and I flinched. I knew if I escaped, she’d be the only one here for him to take it out on. I knew it—and I was going to leave anyway.
A sick rage heated my chest, spreading thickly.
“I’m an adult. I’ll do what I want. You don’t own me.”
I was suddenly, amazingly calm. It was as if everything in my body had gone still.
“What?” His my-ears-must-be-deceiving-me tone was almost comical. So was the expression his face.
“I’m going. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Wrong!” He stood, towering over me and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother shrink back against the sofa. “I’m your father! I make the money! I say what goes around here!”
“You’re not my father.” I was trembling, a cold sweat running between my breasts toward my navel under the t-shirt I was wearing. But the words didn’t stop. It wasn’t that I couldn’t stop the words—it was the words themselves. They wouldn’t stop. “And you don’t make the money around here anymore, do you? The world doesn’t revolve around you, asshole! I’m done letting you tell me what to do. Do you hear me? You can beat me, you can fuck me—do whatever you want—but the next time you touch me, you’re going to have to kill me, because I’m done!”
I thought I might faint before I could turn the doorknob and escape, but I didn’t. The shock must have stopped even him for the next thirty seconds or so, because I was crouched upstairs on the third floor, fetal and rocking just outside Dale’s door, when I heard my father explode out of our apartment, tearing open the door to our building, screaming my name.
I took the opportunity to knock on Dale’s door, but I didn’t have the strength to stand. My legs wouldn’t hold me.
Dale answered, wearing just a pair of boxers, hair tousled, eyes half-closed. He liked to sleep late on Saturdays.
“Sara?” He went from sleepy and yawning to alert in an instant, reaching down and picking me up like I weighed nothing, taking me inside and kicking the door shut behind him. The apartment was quiet.
“Is John still sleeping?” I whispered as Dale carried me down the hall to his bedroom.
“Not here,” he said shortly, kneeing open his bedroom door and kicking it closed, putting me down on the bed. I was still wearing my coat and boots and he took those off, wrapping me up in his arms and his comforter before asking me, “What happened?”
I opened my mouth to tell him, to explain what I’d just done, unable to really comprehend the magnitude of it myself. The words had ebbed away.
“Are you okay? Sara? Look at me. Are you okay?” He searched my face, his simple concern, so genuine, starting my sobs, and he pulled me close with startled concern, trying desperately to comfort me. I clutched him, my flushed cheek resting against his bare shoulder.
I told him about Pete getting fired, about his theft and lies, my voice hitching and low. I told him I’d stood up to him and left. But what I didn’t tell him weighed so much it was like an anvil on my chest, a pain no one could take away, not even Dale.
Still he rocked me and he held me and he loved me.
And it was almost enough.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Sara, will you run back and grab a gallon of milk?” My mother stood next to her cart in the middle of Farmer Jack, looking down at her list.
“Sure.” I went back to get it. She was usually so worried and distracted, she always managed to forget something. When I returned, she was checking things off her list. I put the milk in the cart.
“Has your father said anything to you?” She moved up the aisle, pushing the cart.
“He’s not my father,” I snapped. “And no. Not a fucking word.”
“Nice language.” She frowned. “He may not be your biological father, Sara, but he’s the man who raised you.”
I didn’t say anything, helping her put cans of tomato soup into the cart. I tried to remember a time when the stepbeast had been human. Had he ever loved me? I didn’t really believe it. I didn’t even believe he loved my mother. I was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of that emotion. He seemed driven by animal instincts alone—hunger, sleep, self-preservation, mating. He truly was a beast.
“He’s a good man, Sara.” She moved the cart up the next aisle. “Underneath... you don’t know him like I do.”
I blinked at her. “I don’t think you know him like I do.”
“What does that mean?” She glanced over her shoulder at me, frowning.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“He’s really very generous. He pays your insurance on your car every month. He didn’t even want you to have that car, but he’s willing to pay your insurance. He gives you spending money.”
I snorted, rolling my eyes, but didn’t reply.
“And he’s very loyal. He stays with us. He takes care of us.”