“You new?” he asks me.

I shake my head and open my mouth, but then I close it. How am I supposed to explain any of this? Nothing’s changed. I’m still dirty, tarnished Anna. I can’t throw that on some random guy.

He lifts up a Weedwacker I didn’t notice before. “I’m Jackson. I mow the lawn here sometimes.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly.

“What’s your—”

“Anna!”

I spin around to see my father standing on the porch.

“Get away from Czar. He’s dangerous.”

I see the dog’s ears perk up, possibly at the sound of his name. I shrug and walk away from the doghouse, but I don’t like to turn my back to him. I don’t like to turn my back to anyone. I listen intently and glance back, just a little, hopefully subtly enough. But the dog’s in the shadows again. Hiding. Waiting for a safer moment?

You and me both.

“That’s a guard dog,” my father says. “You leave him alone.”

I shrug and look back to Jackson. He waves to my father, who gives him a noncommittal nod in return. As soon as my father turns away and heads back inside, the boy pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it toward the doghouse, then winks at me before going back to trimming the grass of my neighbor’s yard.

A massive black dog with a wagging stump of a tail rushes from the doghouse and gobbles up what looks like a Milk-Bone.

I take one more deep breath and then head back inside, feeling surprisingly less tense now. Something else to think about besides the way my parents look at me when I come back inside, something other than the odd tension between us. And more importantly, what kind of hell the next few days will bring.

Then I’m back in the kitchen and wondering why I didn’t stay outside.

“We’re sorry, Anna,” my mom says.

I look up quickly, surprised to hear those words come from my mother’s mouth, and I wonder if Sarah has magical powers. Five minutes alone with them and she’s somehow given one of them a soul.

My father sits down, and his shoulders sag.

I look back at my mom. “Sorry for what?” I say. Knowing I’m pushing my luck to have already gotten this much, but I can’t help it.

My father looks at her, as though daring her to say more. My mom drops her head.

And suddenly I feel bad for pushing her.

Didn’t Sarah say this was hard for all of us?

“I’m sorry, too,” I say, and I decide that Sarah is definitely psychic.

Chapter Four

My heart pounds wildly as I stand in front of my bedroom door. I left my parents and Sarah in the kitchen so they could talk alone. They asked me to leave, as if I wanted to listen to them. As if escape wasn’t the first thing on my mind.

But now I’m not so sure this is the escape I want.

It’s amazing, all the horrors I faced on the streets of New York, other people’s worst nightmares, but the thought of facing a thirteen-year-old girl’s bedroom scares the freaking crap out of me.

How can I possibly be scared of my old bedroom?

Luis wouldn’t let this go if he saw me now. I can almost hear his laugh. It always started light and rumbly, as if it bubbled up from somewhere deep and warm in his chest. I wish I could laugh with him. I wish I could go back to when I believed that laugh belonged to a safe space for just the two of us. Was any of that warmth real? Or was I just too blind to see the truth?

The fear of my childhood bedroom is laughable, but somehow this is different. Different from all the other horrors of my past. Like I’m not just facing physical pain or whatever, I’m facing my past. I’m facing myself.

And that is so much scarier.

I take a deep breath and decide I’ve wasted enough time being a wimp. That girl I left behind, she can’t scare me anymore.

I twist the knob and try to ignore the pounding in my chest.

I take a step through the doorway and remind myself that this room means nothing. I’m not this girl, and it doesn’t matter what she would think of me now. It doesn’t matter what she hoped for when she ran away—naive dreams of stardom and freedom. I might have failed that girl, I might have failed myself even now, but there isn’t anything I can do about it.

My heart still aches, no matter what my mind tries to convince me. My eyes still fill with tears, my mind with memories, images. A little girl with unruly curls and dreams too big for her own good.

That girl danced on the bed to all the stupid pop stars she hoped she’d become, stole from her mother’s closet just to try on her high heels and earrings. Then hid under the bed when her father caught her. When the game turned serious.

That girl waited while her mother ran into the room to stop the girl’s father. “She’s just a child, Martin,” she whispered.

“Hush,” he said. Softly, but leaving no room to question him.

But then my memories won’t let me pretend. It wasn’t some other girl under the bed. It was me.

I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t find me. That if I hid long enough, he’d forget.

But then a hand reached under the bed, grasped my upper arm, and ripped me out from my hiding place. My mother didn’t try to plead with him again, and neither did I. I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

His tight squeezes on my arms left yellow bruises, but those always faded after a few days. His belt was what did the most damage. Those swats left me stinging for days. But even those went away.

It was always the words that left me scarred.

“You run around here like a loose girl. Do you know what happens to loose girls?”

I didn’t listen.

His stories were ridiculous. They’d never happen to me, I’d never be like that. But I guess he was more right than I ever realized.

That wasn’t long before I started sneaking out the window to live my life in whatever way I could. When I started actually wearing high heels and earrings and short skirts, stolen from the mall and hidden from my parents—I got very good at hiding. All to attract whatever attention I could manage.

The purple walls of my room seem so close together now, pressing in on me and my memories. Rainbow-colored pillows cover the top of the pink bedspread and stuffed animals line the sides. My desk sits in the same exact place, and there’s a purple grape juice stain next to the left leg.

Nothing’s changed. Figured my parents would have made it into a workout room or something. I’m honestly not sure they’ve touched a thing.

The same pictures hang on the walls, my very last drawings before I ran away.

I suppose it makes sense that a sketch of the Empire State Building is pinned to the corkboard. I’d dreamed about going there for years before I decided to buy myself a train ticket. Before everything went to shit.

And the worst thing? I’m right back where I started.

I cross the room, grab the picture, and rip it from the board. I squeeze my hand closed and watch as the building—once the source of all my dreams—shrinks and wrinkles and disappears into my fist.

I toss it in the trash and walk out the door.

My parents are easier to face than this.

When I reenter the kitchen, my mother and father are talking quietly with Sarah.

“Welcome back,” Sarah says lightly, like she’s surprised I didn’t get caught up being back in my old room or something.

I shrug and sit at the table. “I don’t like it up there.”

She cocks her eyebrow. “Well, it’s good you came back when you did,” she says. “There’s something your parents want to talk to you about.”

I look up, surprised. I have no idea what they’d want to say to me. I mean, I’m sure I can guess some of the things they’d like to say…

“Hi, Anna,” my mother whispers.

My stomach squeezes, and my eyes water again. I really don’t enjoy feeling like a child, but right now I’m not sure I’ve got a choice.