Page 87 of Wicked Games

“Now, it’s late. And a school night. Caleb, I think it’s time for you to head out.” Lenora stands, brushing off invisible dust fromher thighs. “Although I’m sorry to hear about your accident, and I hope you feel better.”

“Of course, Mrs. Bryan. I’m already on the mend.” I ignore Lenora’s burning stare and catch Margo’s hand, then press my lips to her knuckles.

Margo sucks in a breath, and it’s the last sound I hold in my mind as I walk back to my car. Even through the pain in my back and the heaviness in my chest. She’s worth it.

Chapter 21

Margo

Lenora smiles at me, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “You forgive him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know when it happened, but yeah. I think so.”

“He looks at you how I always hoped someone would look at Isabella. But he hasn’t always treated you well, has he?”

I sigh. “Our relationship is complicated. But I’m done letting him try to walk all over me.”

“Robert and I just want to be a good example for you,” she confesses. Her hand lands on my shoulder. “Of what a healthy, solid marriage is. We love each other, but we also respect each other.”

“You are setting a good example.” I force a smile.

Caleb only just left, but loneliness stretches out in front of me. Being dependent on him isn’t what I had in mind when I told him I wasn’t going anywhere.

Sometimes I think my feelings are too big to fit inside me.

She touches my cheek. “You should go to bed, honey. Get some rest.”

It’s easy to feel like an intruder in a foster home. There are kids who came before me and after me, and each one leaves theirmark. In a way, it’s comforting to know that I’m not the only one. That I won’tbethe only one.

But here, there’s no echo of past children. There was only one foster child before me, and they aged out. Lenora and Robert never talk about them.

And Isabella isn’t here anymore either. If this was her room, there’s no sign of it. No holes in the walls from pinned-up posters, or spots of pulled paint from tape. No forgotten long strands of hair that don’t match mine, or,this used to be her bed.

It was a true fresh start.

That should help me sleep, but it doesn’t come easily. I toss and turn all night, wondering about the marks on Caleb’s skin. The exact force used to cause them, but also the expression on his uncle’s face as he enacted that violence.

When I do sleep, I have insane dreams.

My mom, half erased by time, stands at the foot of my bed. She eyes me with suspicion.

My dad in an orange jumpsuit, frowning at me.

I can’t move. I’m trapped in the bed, unable to push away the blankets that are more like restraints.

Caleb’s dad. He walks up to me and ruffles my hair. Crouches until we’re eye level.

“Leave my son alone,” he says, and it echoes.

Leave my son alone.

My son alone.

Son alone.

Alone.

My fingers sting. I lift them, examine them in the dim light. My nails are torn, and blood drips down my hands. A drop lands on my cheek, and I unfreeze.

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