Page 1 of Bake the Town Red

PROLOGUE

Dahlia

Seven years earlier

This can’t be happening again. Make it stop. Get us out of here.

Someone. Anyone.

“What do I always say, Dalí?” my older brother, Ian, whispers close to my face.

Close enough that I see every ounce of sadness in his dark brown eyes.

Close enough that I can reach out and smooth over his messy brown hair.

Close enough so that only I hear him.

Me, not our sadistic uncle.

Al hates that Ian calls me by my nickname.

Hates that my brother thinks it’s cute that I’m almost as eccentric and out there as the Spanish artist.

He says I’m a freak. That only fucked-up girls bake cupcakes with frosting spiderwebs decorations on top.

My mother’s brother basically hates everything about my brother and me, his remaining family. Everything.

But most of all, he hates it when Ian doesn’t do as he says. When Ian doesn’t beat me up right away. When he doesn’t do what Al Higgins asked for so he could have a good fucking laugh.

“Get on with it,” he shouts from the small kitchen area.

My mother was sweet and loving and kind. So was Dad. The day they were killed in a mugging gone wrong in their crafts shop was the worst day of our lives. Then, Al took over.

Ever since then, things just kept getting worse and worse.

“Do it or I will.”

Ian ignores Al and grabs my shoulder. His eyes are desperate and painfully hollow. They’ve grown more and more vacant as days went by.

“Dahlia, please. I need to hear you say the words.”

I have to answer Ian fast if I don’t want the situation to escalate. For Al to take out his rage on both of us.

No one’s here to save us, so I have to.

One person has tried over the last six months, and failed.

Tyler Price, our neighbor from three floors above. The one decent and gorgeous neighbor who bangs on our door and scares our uncle. The one person who can’t take it when our screams rattle the old building.

The only one to ever call the cops.

Problem is, when he did, Al accused the twenty-seven-year-old angel of trying to fuck me. A fifteen-year-old girl.

Fucking nonsense. Tyler never gives me creepy looks—even though I wish he would. He’s always nice. Even when he’s angry at my uncle, he finds it in him to be nice to Ian and me.

Everyone else ignores us. The neighbors pretend the walls aren’t paper-thin. Social services eat up Al’s act, smile at the bastard. Tell us we’re lucky to have such a caring uncle.

Tyler isn’t that stupid.

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