Page 73 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

“You think this is funny?” His lips purse, but he doesn’t look away from me. I hit and scratch, trying to release his grip, but he doesn’t budge. “I did everything to protect you, and you go behind my back.”

“Dad,” I rasp, struggling to get the word out fully.

He jerks me forward, pulling me closer to his face. The tips of his fingers dig deeper into my skin. His eyes grow darker each passing second, completely blacked out.

“Dad,” I gasp again, struggling more.

I think I’m going to die.

He forcefully pushes me back into the wall, and my head clashes against it, the loud thud echoing through my eardrums. His grip on me gives as he drops his arm to his side. My back glides down the wall, so I’m sitting on the floor. Choking and gasping, my hands flew up to my throat where he had a hold of me.

My teeth grit, watching his every move. A cruel, sinister laugh comes from him. I don’t take my eyes off him for a second as he paces back and forth before crouching in front of me.

I jolt, being stopped by the hard wall behind me. My chest heaves, and my body shakes.

Cocking his head, he raises his hand to my face and runs the back of his fingers down my cheek. I cringe, wishing I could be anywhere but here right now.

“Oh, my sweet little girl,” he tsks. “You will never find out who killed your mother.”

I don’t say anything, not having enough strength to bite back. My vision blurs more with each second that passes.

“I made sure of that,” he whispers, standing straight up and slamming the door shut as he leaves.

It takes me a beat to register what the fuck just happened. My stomach twists, my ears buzzing.

Scrambling to my feet, my body trembles as I swiftly dodge towards the trash can. Without hesitation, I toss the lid onto the floor and forcefully hurl into it until I’m left dry heaving.

I’m no longer safe in my own house.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Summer

“What’re you doing here?”

Chloe checks her phone, staring at it for a long time as if she’s looking for a missed call or text from me. She won’t find one because I never reached out. All I was able to do was pack a bag and leave the moment my body had stopped failing me.

Coming here was the only choice I had.

Even if she wasn’t home, or at work, I would have waited for her. Even if that meant waiting for hours.

Adjusting the strap to my backpack hanging on my shoulder, I clear my throat. My neck pulses, sore from where my dad’s hand was wrapped tight around my neck. Before I left, the skin was already bruising. Purple and blue finger imprints on each side of my throat. The only way to hide it was to throw on the turtleneck I used when I dressed up as Freddy Krueger for Halloween last year. Despite the ninety degree weather and having to keep the sleeves rolled to my elbow, it wasn’t been too bad to walk here.

Now, though, sweat beads against my hairline and I’m positive that it’s caused by a mix of anxiety and fear and not so much the humid weather.

Thankfully, she doesn’t question my choice of wardrobe. Chloe never does. Which only makes it that much easier to hide the bruises.

“Is it OK if I crash here for a while? I promise I won’t be a burden. I just…” I pause, shaking my head, pressing my fingers to my temples to ease the ongoing headache I’ve been accustomed to for the past twenty-four hours.

Chloe’s eyes narrow. “You’re never a burden, Summer.” I give a soft smile; it’s coated with sadness, and it’s clear she knows something is up. Her arms fling up, crossing at her chest, and she casually leans against the door frame. “You don’t look so good. What’s wrong?”

My throat is scratchy, painfully so. There’s no way I can tell Chloe what my father has done. I’ve gotten far too many people involved already. I can’t bear for her to be dragged down into my mess, too.

“Dad and I had a fight… It was bad. I don’t want to be home.” It’s not a complete lie.

Chloe nudges her head, holding the door open for me as I walk past her. My eyes soak up the small room as if I haven’t been here before. I have.

She worries herself on her toes. “I’m really sorry about the mess. I would have cleaned up if you’d called.”

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