Page 1 of Beneath the Surface

Prologue

Lily

Iremember the wind.

The house we were in was sturdy, but that night, I thought it might tumble down. There wasn’t any storm, no pitter-pattering of raindrops against the roof’s shingles. No thunder to accompany the hole being ripped open in the middle of my chest.

But there was wind.

And it was howling.

Thinking back, I like to pretend it was Mother Earth’s way of crying, guttural groans against the brick, while a meaty hand that smelled like beef jerky and stale cigarettes muffled my voice.

Not that I would have made any noise anyway. My older brother, Chase, was right next door, and I knew that if I woke him up, he’d come charging in, getting us both in trouble.

And more than anything else, I was terrified of being separated. Chase always told me it was us against the world. Forever. But I heard our caseworker say we were one of the lucky ones—that usually siblings were split apart.

If I didn’t have Chase, then I wouldn’t have anyone.

So, instead of letting out a sob, my fingers dug deeper into my stuffed bunny rabbit, gripping it as tight as possible, while my foster father stole my innocence.

I was nine years old.

We were with them for over a year.

I’ve blocked out a lot from that time, and the memories I do have, I’ve doused in black tar and liquor, but there’re some things that just can’t be erased—tattoos that get etched beneath the surface, carved so deep they brand your soul.

And I remember the wind.

1

Lily

“Johnny, there’re a couple of guys who just walked in, I’m about to send some orders,” I holler at my manager.

He sighs, leaning back in the rickety office chair, his normally spiked blond hair matted against his head, and his Dina’s Diner shirt crinkled and stained. Our cook never showed up today, so Johnny was stuck on the line, frying up eggs, and overcooking bacon for the truck drivers that stop through.

We don’t get a lot of regulars here—other than Barrie—a man in his seventies who shows up every morning like clockwork, sipping on his coffee and working on his crosswords.

We’re close enough to the big city for a night on the town, and far away enough to be considered the middle of nowhere. But we’re right on the edge of State Route 60, so we get plenty of people passing through on their way to Phoenix.

My foot cramps against the linoleum floors, and I cringe, the tray of Coke tipping slightly in my hands. Pasting on a smile, I rebalance the weight and make my way over to the table of three grungy men who stumbled in fifteen minutes ago. They’re the only ones here, other than a lone customer in the back booth, tucked away in the corner.

My eyes flick to him. He’s been drinking coffee and readingThe Art of Warsince he walked in three hours ago, and he hasn’t said a single word the entire time I’ve served him.

“Y’all ready to order?” I slide the Cokes down the table, grabbing my notepad from my apron and smacking my cinnamon gum.

“That depends, sugar. Are you on the menu?” The man closest to me leers, his stringy black hair falling over his bushy eyebrows, his mud-caked nails absentmindedly scratching against his forearm.

I smirk, playfully rolling my eyes, pretending like I haven’t heard some variation of the cliched phrase a million times. “Did no one teach you how to read wherever you’re from?” I ask, my head tilting to the side.

His smile drops and his hand stops scratching against his raw skin long enough to reach out and wrap around my wrist.

My body freezes, ants skittering up my arm and dropping into my gut—thousands of tiny legs crawling around inside of me. Just his touch has transferred the itch, and nowI’mthe one who needs to be scrubbed clean.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you,bitch,” he spits. “I’ve got a nice way to shut you up.” His free hand gropes at his crotch, humping the air lewdly. His friends break out in raucous laughter.

I swallow, my eyes glancing around, not wanting to cause a scene. Whether I like it or not, I need the tip this guy and his friends will hopefully still leave.

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