Chapters (63)
- THE AMERICANA PLAYBOOK
- Dear Reader
- The Troubled Teen Industry
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- New England Rebels
- Day 44
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Day 55
- Chapter 5
- TWO MONTHS LATER
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Day 68
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Day 78
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Day 84
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Day 91
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Day 100
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Day 113
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Day 128
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Day 147
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Epilogue
- ONE MONTH LATER
- FIVE YEARS LATER
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Cathryn Carter
- About the Author
Parker sits up, leaning forward. Her strap slips down again, leaving her scar more exposed, just inches from my face. “Where they sent me? That”—she pauses, and I hear the frustrated breath fight its way out—“school? I’d rather be dead than ever go back to a place like that. Or even close to it.”
Goosebumps invade my skin with full force. She means it. I know she means it.
I push up on my elbow as my stomach twists. “Is that what’s out in the Berkshires?” When Parker nods, I gently press my hand against her spine, just to the right of the scar. I can feel her heart racing. “Is that where you got this?”
“No. That happened when they took me.”
My hand falls and it takes all my strength to overcome the tautness of my muscles and use them to sit up and scoot closer. “What do you mean took you?”
I almost don’t recognize the venom in my voice.
Parker stares straight ahead. “That night after we climbed the fence at school. It was late. Maybe three in the morning. I didn’t hear them. Not in the hallway, because there was a rug. That’s why I didn’t take the upstairs room in the apartment. There’s carpeting on the stairs and outside it. It makes it too hard to hear someone coming. I guess I kind of lied about the break-in.”
As much as Parker kind of lied, she kind of told the truth.
“And I didn’t hear them when they came in, because the door was so old it never closed right.”
My eyes flick to her extra lock. I feel sick.
“I thought it was a nightmare, you know? But I could feel things.” Parker drops her head. “Like their hands on my wrists. The pillow against my mouth…”
The sickness in my stomach flees. Rage takes its place.
“I stopped fighting, you know? Because I thought… I thought someone broke in and maybe they were going to rape me, and if I didn’t fight so hard”—her voice cracks—“maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
My body lurches, fueled by a need to touch Parker, to hold her. But I don’t. I grit my fucking teeth and remember I asked for this. But god, I almost wish I hadn’t.
Parker continues, “When I felt them lifting me off the bed, I started to fight. I hit one of them with a trophy. I tried to bite and scream, but one guy had his hand so tight on my mouth…Nothing worked. I knew we were going downstairs, and then I started to really panic. Like if they got me out of the house, they’d kill me.”
Parker goes silent for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. I almost intervene, and let her know she can stop.