Page 109 of Wicked Games

“Fine. I caught Amelie and Ian kissing in the hallway. They both paid me five bucks to keep my mouth shut.”

Dad chuckled. “You’re going to be quite the businessman.”

“They should pay for me to keep secrets,” Caleb muttered. “Amelie says she’s Margo’s friend.”

“Is she?”

“Well, she’s not a very good one.”

I stormed out into the living room with only one sock on. “She’s a fine friend! You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Language, Margo,” Dad commented.

“He insults my friend, but I have to watch my language?” I was so mad it hurt.

“I’myour friend,” Caleb answered, balling his fists. “And she’s not. Just watch, she’s gonna turn into a mean girl, and when she does, I’ll sayI told you so.”

He stuck his tongue out at me.

Tears sprang into my eyes. “Stop it.”

Dad stepped between us, pulling me into his side. “Enough, Caleb.” He knelt in front of me. “Margo, kids can be mean at this age. Caleb, Amelie, the bullies… Take everything with a grain of salt.”

Grain of salt. He explained that one to me last week. Be cautious about everything, he said. Don’t just blindly believe everything you hear.

“How about you go put your other sock on and we’ll eat this pizza.”

He patted my head, and I rushed away. I batted at the tears, the anger diminishing the farther away I got.

Dad always knew how to make things better—even Caleb’s harsh words or Mom’s weird moods. He was my favorite. He carried me on his shoulders and made up bedtime stories, checked in my closet for the boogeyman. Never raised his voice. Not at me.

But he did yell at Mom…

Grain of salt. Maybe she deserved it.

Maybe she deserved everything that happened.

Present

I can’t go into my room.

It’s been over a week since Caleb found the camera, but this fear seemed to have crept up after we got back from NYU. Maybe it was that all three of us were out of the house on Saturday? It left it vulnerable. Last night, when we got back from the city, I forced myself to go in.

Today, not so much.

Robert and Lenora are out doing some errands, and I’ve been working up the courage to talk to Dad. I figured I could write him a letter or something. That’s about as minimal contact as I can get.

I’mangryat him, but I didn’t realize it until now.

Or rather, I had shoved it down until now. He went to prison on a drug charge. He putdrugsahead of his own child.

Who does that?

The great man I knew as a kid is nothing more than a drug dealer.

And now Unknown has made it virtually impossible to go into my room without being held captive by terror.

I hold my breath, creeping into the room. Sunday morning light streams in, but everything else is untouched. My window is locked. The closet door is shut. My bookshelf seems the same. I compare it to a photo I took before I left, but I’m not convinced.

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