Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
There’s a cot shoved against the far wall, with a stained and threadbare blanket covering it. No pillow. No warmth. No cushioning or support of any kind.
To the right of the cot is a small, worn dresser with three crooked drawers. I don’t want to open them, but at the same time, I have to.
Maybe this isn’t what we think it is. Maybe he kept a rambunctious dog down here—
The thought dries up the second I tug open the first drawer, finding it full of unmistakably feminine items. The kind I’m not entirely comfortable touching, knowing they belong to Nora.
Moving on to the next drawer, I find a hairbrush, some hair ties, a handful of pens, and some crumpled papers with hauntingly familiar handwriting.
But it’s the third drawer that’s the final nail in the coffin. Sitting all alone in the bottom is a well-worn Polaroid of a young Nora with a man I have to assume is her dad; they’re both smiling wide, like they’re in on a secret the rest of us just wished we knew.
The joy splashed across their faces reminds me of my mom. She always was the brightest light in any room—until she got sick, that is.
“Shit, man.” I grab the image from the drawer and slide it into my back pocket. “My sick fuck of a father was keeping her locked up in here like a prisoner.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Ellis takes a step closer to me. “Atlas—”
“There’s nothing you can say.” I laugh, but it’s a dark and hollow sound.
I’ve had my suspicions about the kind of guy my dad was for years, since my mom died, but I always shrugged it off, always convinced myself my imagination was running wild, that I was reaching.
Clearly I wasn’t, though, because the man’s a monster.
“There’s nothing anyone can say to make this better. He’s…” I trail off and take one last look at the makeshift prison before turning for the door. “He needs to be found. He needs to be held accountable, to pay for this.” A cold shiver works its way through my body. “More than that, she needs to be found. Fuck, man.”
Ellis sighs, and I can tell he’s just as worried as me. “Get out of here then, and I’ll call it in.”
“I mean it, Ellis. I don’t care that he’s my own flesh and blood, he’s sick and I—if he did anything to hurt her, I’ll kill him myself.”
“Loud and clear, man,” Ellis says, before I can pop off anymore. “We’ll find him—both of them—and he’ll have to answer for this. But I’ve gotta tell you, I’m not sure this’ll stay quiet.”
“What?”
“I’m just saying, if the press gets wind of your dad keeping Nora locked up like a dog, they’ll be all over it.”
“Let ’em. The world needs to know exactly what kind of man Randall Wallace is.”
“And what kind is that?” my best friend asks.
“A spineless, nutless, no-good sack of shit who deserves every single thing coming his way,” I say. Family or not, he’s dead to me.
DIARY ENTRY, AGE 15
Dear Diary,
Yesterday was my birthday. I’m fifteen now.
There’s no pretense of a party this year. At least not for me. In fact, Mom hasn’t even acknowledged my birthday this year at all, because she’s been far too busy preparing for her very own special day.
Her wedding day.
That’s right, she’s marrying Rand today, and while she’s floating around like she doesn’t have a care in the world, I feel like I’m slowly suffocating. Drowning. Dying.
How can she be walking down the aisle when Dad’s only been gone a year? I mean, his grave dirt may as well still be fresh for all the time she waited.
She’s really and truly marrying Randall Wallace.
It’s like I’m trapped in a nightmare and can’t wake up. God knows this abomination of a dress had to have been plucked straight from a nightmare—it’s a lace and tulle monstrosity that no self-respecting girl over the age of seven would wear.
Yet here I am, doing just that. She even made me curl my hair in ringlets, too. I look like I’m five, not fifteen, and I hate it.
I’m so mad that I’m shaking.
In less than an hour, my mom will be Mrs. Grace Wallace. She mentioned changing my last name, too, and it was like I was possessed. I kicked and screamed and threw a fit worthy of the child they have me dressed like. I told her if she ever mentioned changing my name again, I’d hate her for the rest of forever.
I am my father’s daughter, and I will keep his last name until the day I die.
I feel sick to my stomach. How could she do this? To me, to Dad, to us?
It’s like she’s got blinders on, and Rand is all she can see.