Anyway, I left school, went home, and hid up in my bedroom. My uncle had come home for lunch and, as I was sneaking around, trying to stay hidden, I noticed him empty some bags out of his pockets, stuffing them into the attic crawlspace. Then he called someone and informed them of what he had managed to bring home that day.

“I got a lot today,” he said then paused. “Yeah, I know. I want you to push it as fast as you can.”

Before my parents died, I’d been raised in a questionable neighborhood and knew enough about the drug world to understand what that meant.

When he left, I snuck up to the crawlspace and jackpot. I didn’t take it all, just enough that he wouldn’t notice. After that, it became a routine. Usually, I’d find only weed in there, but on a couple of occasions, I found some ecstasy or coke.

I’m a little worried about how things are going to work now that we’ve moved and he has a new job. I guess I’ll find out. It’s going to suck if he stops stealing drugs and stashing them in the house. Not that I’m addicted, but getting high often calms me, and I need help with that whenever I can.

“Raven! For the love of God, get down here!” Aunt Beth shouts furiously.

Sighing, I put the joint in my bag then head down the stairs to start what I’m sure is going to be a hellish first day of school.

2

RAVEN

I end up crossing paths with my uncle on my way out. He’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table, eating breakfast and reading a newspaper. He doesn’t look a lot like my dad—shorter and stockier with a bald spot on his head—which I’m grateful for. He’s also dressed in his uniform.

I try to pass by the kitchen without being noticed and hurry toward the front door, but he glances up before I can make a quick exit.

His gaze sweeps across me, and then he frowns. “You’re really going to go to school dressed like that?”

I bite back a rude remark and shrug while tugging on the sleeve of my jacket, mostly to keep the pendant hidden. It’s the one I found in the remains of the fire, and I know it might be risky wearing it, but for some reason, I feel connected to it. Or maybe it’s just that it’s something nice, and it’s been a while since I’ve had something nice.

He eyes me over again, making my skin crawl. “You look like a slut.”

My anger ticks, and I want nothing more than to walk up and clock him in the face. But I fight the urge and turn for the door, preparing to walk out. But only so I don’t get arrested. In a perfect world, I’d get to gorge his pervert eyes out with my fingers. Then again, in a perfect world his eyes would never wander to places they don’t belong.