Page 2 of Wicked Dreams

We walk into their large foyer. As soon as the door shuts, I have the urge to yank it open and sprint away.

It’s not her. Or the house.Just nerves.

“Robert is upstairs,” Lenora continues. “Margo, do you want to come with me and I can show you your room? We can go grab him together.”

Ms. McCaw follows us up the stairs, clearing her throat every time I pause to study the pictures. Their other foster daughter looks like Lenora. Dark hair with soft bangs, big blue eyes. She’s petite, too, framed between Lenora and a taller man. It’s more of those pieces of information, just taunting me. I can’t help but stop to examine them.

“Margo,” Ms. McCaw whispers.

“Sorry, sorry.” I force myself faster up the steps.

Lenora glances back, and her face falls. “That’s our daughter. She passed away a few years ago.”

Shit.

She shows me where I’ll be staying, and I drop my backpack on the full-sized bed. It’s a nice room, simple enough. I just need to keep reminding myself that I have four months until freedom.

Robert comes out of a room down the hall and grins at us. “Ah, you must be Margo! Lovely. Lenora showed you your room?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

They seem like regular rich people, all sweaters and comfortable pants that look more expensive than my entire wardrobe. Their smiles seem genuine, and I pray that there isn’t any malice lurking under the surface.

We all sit in their living room.

Ms. McCaw clears her throat again. “Margo turns eighteen in four months, at which point she ages out of the system. You have kindly agreed to enroll her at Emery-Rose Elite School?—”

I choke.

“Robert works there,” Lenora says, reaching out and patting my hand. “It’s a good education, and the tuition was free.”

I swallow hard and try to rein in my reaction.

McCaw eyes me. “Well, Margo was originally there on scholarship when she was younger. Is that correct, Margo?”

“The elementary school portion.” I shift in my seat. “They accepted me even though I’ve been in public schools?”

Nine of them, to be exact. Not just high school—middle and elementary, too.

While my last foster family was good to me, and I was there for two years, there was a period of about five years where I bumped around different families and group homes, and the changing location meant changing schools, too. I tried my best to make it seamless, but jumping into new curriculums every year has pushed me a little behind, I’m sure of it.

Seven years since I entered the system, and I’m almost done.

One more school.

My very first school.

“Congratulations, hon,” my social worker coos. “You’re going back to Emery-Rose.”

I should be happy about this. It’s a slice of familiarity, right?

“When do I start?”

“Tomorrow,” Robert says. “They only just returned last week, so it’s perfect timing. You’ll be starting as a senior, although they mentioned you may need some extra credits to graduate with the current seniors. That’s no problem, though. We can get you caught up easily enough.”

I blow out a breath. I wasn’t held back, which means I’m still in the same grade as those elementary kids with whom I started.

How many kids I knew are still there?

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