Page 1 of Rampage

prologue

Lily

One Day Away From Turning Eighteen

I press my back against the wall, my heart pounding like a trapped animal. The knocking turns into banging, wood splintering against the cheap lock I installed myself last month. That lock is the only thing standing between me and him right now.

"Lily!" His voice is slurred, thick with alcohol. "Open this goddamn door! This is my house!"

I scan my room frantically. The window. It's my only chance. I grab my prepacked backpack from under the bed, the one I've been adding to for weeks. Just essentials: some clothes, my school documents, the little cash I've managed to save from my part-time job at the gas station.

The doorframe cracks. He's going to get through.

My trembling hands push up the window. It's stuck. Of course it's stuck. I slam my palm against it and push harder, ignoring the pain shooting through my wrist. The old wood finally gives with a groan, and cold night air rushes in.

"When I get in there, you're going to regret this!" he bellows, his fist creating another splintering crack in the door.

Two stories. It's a two-story drop to the ground. I've never been athletic, but tonight I don't have a choice. I throw my backpack out first, watching it land with a soft thud on the patchy lawn below.

The door hinges screech as they begin to give way.

I swing one leg over the windowsill, then the other, clinging to the frame as I lower myself as far as possible. My foster mother's flower trellis runs alongside my window—it's flimsy, but it might slow my fall.

"Just a few more hours," I whisper to myself. "Just hold on a few more hours and you're free."

I let go just as I hear the door finally burst open behind me.

The air rushes past me as I fall, my fingers scraping against the trellis, catching just enough to break my descent before it collapses under my weight. I hit the ground hard, pain shooting up through my ankle, but I don't have time to assess the damage. His roar of rage echoes from my bedroom window above.

"LILY! GET BACK HERE!"

I grab my backpack and run, limping across the lawn and through the gap in the fence I loosened last week. The neighbors' motion lights flicker on as I cut through their yard, but I don't stop. I can't stop. Not until I'm far enough away that he won't find me.

My lungs burn as I push forward, the cool night air stinging my face. Three blocks down, I duck behind the abandoned laundromat and allow myself ten seconds to catch my breath. Ten seconds to feel the fear and pain before I have to keep moving.

Eight years in the foster system, and Frank Dawson's house has been the worst by far. When he's sober, he's just mean. When he's drunk, he's dangerous. His wife never did anything to help me.

I check my phone. 11:42 PM.

The gas station where I work is closed, but Jeremy, the night manager at the twenty-four-hour diner next door, has always been kind to me. He caught me sleeping in the employee break room once when Frank locked me out. He didn't report me, just brought me a blanket and woke me before his shift ended.

I stick to the shadows, avoiding the main streets. This town is too small—everyone knows everyone, and Frank has friends on the police force. One well-placed call about a "troubled runaway" and I'd be dragged back to that house.

When I reach the diner, I peer through the windows. Only two customers inside, both truckers focused on their meals. Kyle is wiping down the counter, his lanky frame hunched over as always.

I slip around to the back entrance and knock softly. Three quick taps—our signal.

The door opens, and Jeremy’s concerned face appears.

"Jesus, Lily, what happened?" he whispers, ushering me inside.

"He was drunk again," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I had to go. Tonight."

Jeremy nods, not asking for details. He's seen the bruises before.

"Your birthday's tomorrow, right?" he asks, leading me to the small storage room behind the kitchen.

"Yeah. Eighteen. Finally."

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