Cruel Illusions
Chapters (44)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- 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
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- More from the Author
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cover
Cruel Illusions
Margie Fuston
Author of Vampires, Hearts & Other Dead Things
Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
Title Page
Dedication
For Lucas, who’s the best storyteller I know
CHAPTER 1
I always stop for lost-pet flyers. I can’t stand the thought of animals out on the street when they have a home and a family waiting for them. This one’s a cat, and even though the paper’s yellowed from the sun and the ink’s smeared from the rain, I memorize the gray stripes and the name: Suzy.
Maybe Suzy’s already back home.
Still, I dig a pen out of my backpack and write the number on my wrist, where I’m less likely to wash it off. I’ve found a missing pet only once, but I remember the way the little dog squirmed in my arms when we reached his door and the way his owners almost cried and then hugged me like you would a long-lost relative—they gave me twenty bucks, too.
Sometimes I wish I could post a flyer and have a kind stranger show up at my door and give me back everything I’ve ever lost.
But most lost things never come back.
My hand drifts to the four quarters I always keep in my pocket. I pull them out and fan them between my fingers, blinking them away almost as quick. I give a bow to a watching squirrel. It turns and runs into the street, dodging a car just to escape my performance.
I smile. Magic reminds me of Mom and Dad. The good memories.
The bad one creeps in too. It never leaves, and this time of year, it’s all I can think about.
Shoving my quarters out of sight, I speed the hundred yards down the sidewalk. I take the stairs to my foster house two at a time and fumble with the lock on the red door while the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black” runs through my head.
The hardwood floor creaks as I enter. No matter where I go, this house speaks to me with every step. Even when I’m not moving, when I lie in bed staring at the notches in the wooden beam dividing the ceiling, it groans and whispers as it stretches its worn joints. It has too many stories to tell to stay silent. I love to listen to them, especially at night when everyone else is asleep.