Betrayal had sunk its claws into my thoughts. None of this would have happened—my entire family wouldn’t have shown up like a circus—had he not told someone. A light of hope had begun to surface that day, positive thoughts of forgetting about Quinton approaching, and my future with Lincoln was all I was looking toward. And then Rex had barged through the door like a madman, dissipating all that confidence.

Because of Lincoln, they know.

Because of Lincoln, my family sees me as dishonest, as weak, as someone who needs to be watched.

Johnna is covering my shift at Twisted Fox again tonight. Cohen was understanding when I texted and told him. It’s time for me to come up with a plan. As much as I love working at the bar and living in Anchor Ridge, what happens now?

Now that people know what happened to me.

I don’t want to be known as Cassidy Lane, the girl who was abused, needs saving, and couldn’t hold her own against some jerk.

I’m in the living room, staring at the TV yet not processing anything happening on the show. Maliki and Sierra are in the kitchen, whispering and warming up frozen pizzas. My head rises, my gaze shooting toward the entry, when the front door opens.

Grace appears, strutting into the house, wearing a wool jacket, pencil skirt, and kitten heels. She smiles at me, dimples popping out along her fair cheeks, and drops her computer bag to the floor before relaxing in the chair next to the couch.

“Hey, babe,” she says. “You have the night off again?”

I stare at her, blinking, struggling to get a read on her. “Do you know?”

“Know what?” She genuinely looks confused, which confuses me because I was under the impression that the group told each other everything.

Gripping the hem of my sweatshirt with my hands nearly trembling, I drag it up to reveal my bruise. It happens without thought, as if my brain told my body I could trust Grace.

Or maybe I’m sick of hiding it.

She gasps, her mouth falling open, her eyes wide. “Oh my God! Who did that to you?”

“An ex.” My voice is fainter than a whisper as the truth releases from my lips for the first time, and I shove the sweatshirt back down.

And just like that, Grace is the first person I’ve muttered those words to. I’m not going into specifics and telling her it was Quinton, but it’s more than what I’ve given anyone else. I’m not sure if it’s because there’s an ease, a comfortableness, with Grace or because I finally want to talk about it so I can stop thinking about it incessantly.

All her attention is on me, her forehead creasing in concern. “Did you call the cops?” She jumps up from her seat. “Do you need anything? Ice? A drink?”