Prologue

PROLOGUE

15 YEARS AGO

"Never tell anyone what you saw."

Mama shoves the camcorder into her purse.

Clutching my arm, she guides us down the hallway, setting a pace that leaves my short legs struggling to keep up. She banks a left, her breath waning above me as we bound across the kitchen. Moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating stainless steel appliances and marble countertops that stand taller than my pigtails.

Her modest heels click-clack their way across Mr. Kingston's rolling estate, room after room, corridor through corridor, until she stops suddenly, dropping to one knee. Now at eye level, Mama shakes my shoulders, earning my full attention.

"Juliana," she rasps. "You can never speak of this. Not with your friends. Not at school or even with your brother. Do you understand me?"

I stare into her pupils, transfixed by their intensity. Usually, they're soft and inviting. Glinting with a warmth I can't seem to find. Now, only fear shines in them, amplified by the smudge of charcoal liner around her waterline. And the frazzled state of her hair and miss-buttoned leopard blouse.

Biting my trembling lip, I nod without a word.

"Good... good..." Her voice wanders, as does her stare.

Time wanes on a slow breath, before I break the silence. "C-can I go back and play with Jer now?"

Snapping into focus, she bursts to her feet. Then we're on the move again, leaving my lingering question in our wake. Anxiety crawls up my throat, tripping my heels, but Mama keeps me upright by my arm. Her hold is tight. Too tight. Like the suffocating squeeze of a python in the throes of fight-or-flight. I'm about to protest, when the playroom door sweeps into view, releasing a heap of tension off my shoulders.

I nearly giggle. Phew-ee! She did listen.

I'll just go back to playing with Jer and Hayden and forget all about what happened— whatever-it-was that I saw. But, on second thought, why should I forget? Mama really is acting strange for no good reason. What's the big deal? She and Mr. Kingston were only playing. Rather loudly, I'll say, with an array of noises I've certainly never heard come from Mama's lips...

But still.

Adults have playtime, too—right?

No matter what it was, the instant Mama flings the door wide, unveiling my favorite room inside Mr. Kingston's humongous house, all memory of the incident fades to black. My attention stolen by yellow Tonka trucks, Lincoln Logs, fuzzy sock puppets, and Jer and Hayden sitting crisscross on the carpet, their focus conducted by Thomas the Tank Engine steaming across miniature railroad tracks.

On the same breath, their eyes meet mine, Jer's brimmed with wonder and Hayden's above a rosy blush slowly staining his chubby cheeks. Jitters erupt in my insides—a funny sensation I can't quite explain, but never fail to feel whenever I'm around Mr. Kingston's youngest son. It's as if my stomach decides to do a cartwheel, then a somersault and a belly flop, all on its own, without my body ever being in motion.

A high-pitched whistle zips through the air as Thomas rolls past the train station, flickering lights celebrating his arrival. Returning Hayden a toothy grin, excitement propels my feet forward—

"Jeremy."

I freeze, not having ventured more than a couple of steps, as all the hairs on my arms stand on end. Mama never says his name like that...

"We're leaving... Now."

Jer's expression falters. But he hasn't the time to argue, not when Mama lifts his skinny frame off the carpet, standing him on his feet, then treats his arm much like mine moments ago.

"You too, Juliana."

"Can't Hayden come along?" I whine.

On their rushed exit out the door, she shoots me a stern look. I huff a grand sigh and fall into step behind them. But before I leave the room, I pivot on my heel. Hayden sits amongst the toys, his eyebrows knotted in confusion. I wish to tell him everything I saw. To explain that it's my fault we're leaving.

Instead, I brush a lock behind one ear, my toes curling when his ocean-blue eyes find mine. "S-sorry, Hayden."

"That's okay!" he chirps, an abundance of energy rolling off him in waves, as usual. "Next time, we can build the tracks together. I promise!"

Then that inexplicable feeling washes over me once more. And it lingers... Lingers through our departing glance. On my way out the door. And as I trail Mama's hasty steps atop checkered tile and polished mahogany. Until we're beneath the umbrella of a cloudless night.

Cobblestone lines the long driveway, our path lit by floodlights peeking between pristine hedges.

"We still had more time. I just know we did!" Jer wriggles in Mama's grasp, blabbering on, his voice like a squeaky mouse in the calm air. "We hadn't made it to the Legos yet. Or added other cars to our tracks. Not even—"

"Shhh," Mama hushes him.

Noting me lagging behind, she grabs my hand, forcing me to keep up. Her heels clack against the driveway, piercing through the silence, as she guides us hand-in-hand down a row of cars, all neatly parked along the sidewalk. They're always here. Mama once said they all belong to Mr. Kingston, but I don't think I believe her.

Nonetheless, I run my fingertips across their shiny exteriors like always.

First, they glide along a car that gleams like snowy pearls, the surface so clean my reflection gazes curiously back at me. Until my fingers slip off into thin air... and connect with another shade. This time, a deep onyx with athletic grooves and chrome rims. Next up, a vibrant azure... then another midnight black. Specs of white offset the dark color perfectly, as if a masterful painter flicked her wrist in just the right ways, her brush emulating tiny diamonds...

Next is orange. But the tinge is... off, sporting random splotches. Somehow dull and dingy, yet offensively bright, all at the same time. Then there's the mismatched door—a cherry red. The whole thing's like the same painter did away with her careful strokes and opted for a brasher technique. Hasty, sloppy. Possibly discarding her brush altogether, using her hands to smear along the bottom side of the—

Oh. Oops.

My hand falls to my side.

That's our car.

"Mama's Trusty Steed," she often calls it. Or "The Rust Bucket," depending on her mood. I smirk at that, hearing her sassy voice recite the nickname in my head—until I hear Mama's actual voice. Frazzled and panting. My smile fades as she rummages through her tote frantically, retrieving a pair of keys.

A car door clicks open nearby.

"Shit," Mama breathes out, a rare curse slipping from her lips. And out walks Mr. Kingston from the beautiful vehicle parked directly in front of ours. He rises to his impressive height, clad in a navy suit, a phone pressed to his ear.

Our car beeps, its headlights flashing. "Get inside," Mama hisses, tossing us into the backseat. "And don't move."

"I'll call you right back," Mr. Kingston says in the distance, closing his door simultaneously with ours. Through the window, my gaze connects with Mama's. For a brief moment, the whites around her pupils widen like saucers. Then they blink slowly, exuding a shocking confidence. Plastering on a calm expression, Mama turns, facing Mr. Kingston.

My left pigtail jerks backwards.

"Ow!" I screech as Jer crawls over the top of me. Shifting in protest, I exhale sharply, as he steals the window seat. "What're you doing?! Mama said not to move."

"I'm not," he lies. "Don't you want to listen?"

Not waiting for my answer, he works the manual window crank, dropping the glass an inch. Just enough to pick up Mama's heels halting atop the driveway. Jer sucks in a breath at the same time I do, going deathly silent. Like one whisper might betray our eavesdropping as we shuffle closer, huddling against the window.

Mr. Kingston sinks his hands into his pants pockets, sporting a playful grin. "Where do you think you're running off to, baby? You still got another hour of watching Hayden."

Baby? Jer and I exchange a look. He never calls her that. I nibble on my lip, thinking. Well, I guess he did a few times. When he and Mama were playing earlier...

"Oh, uhm..." She shuffles, drawing her purse close to her side. "Didn't I tell you? We have to get home early tonight."

Cocking his head, he eyes her bag. "Do you now?"

"Yes. We have plans in the morning."

"Well, then, if it's so urgent, I'll drive you. Or"—he takes a step closer, hunger flashing in his eyes—"even better, you can stay the night here."

"Why, that's very kind of you, Mr. Kingston." Her tone is sweet, but his name sounds strained on her tongue, as she gestures toward us. Gasping, we duck low, just enough to still peek through the bottom of the glass. "But I've already got them buckled up. We'll manage just fine."

He doesn't look our way. Not even a glance, as his smile grows. "I know when you're lying, Amber."

She squirms under his scrutiny. "I'm not lying."

"Yes, you are." He takes another step, which prompts her to take one back. "You want to know why? Because you're terrible at it." Flicking his chin, he eyes her purse again. "Are you going to tell me what you got in there?"

She doesn't say a word.

"God, I love when you play hard to get." He wets his lips. "Does my little mistress need another round—so soon?"

"N-no."

"Another lie." He clicks his tongue. "Or else you wouldn't have stolen something to get my attention. What is it, then? Jewelry? Shoes?"

Another step backward.

With a dark chuckle, he watches her movements with a predatory gaze. "I'd buy all those things for you, baby. I'm sure a smart girl like yourself knows a few ways to convince me."

Fists clenching, Mama wills strength into her voice. "I didn't want to have to do this here."

"Show me."

As he inches forward, she reaches into her bag...

"That's it," he coos, his voice like gravel.

... and pulls out the camcorder.

He stops dead in his tracks, that wicked smile falling flat.

"It's over, Warren."

He blinks slowly... then blinks again... as the gears grind inside his brain. Ominous shadows form along his features. "You know the first thing that would happen if you released those tapes."

"You're right— I do. Sylvia would divorce you. She'd take you to the cleaners. I'm sure of that. And I can't imagine the shitstorm the media would make of it."

His jaw ticks. "How much?"

"What?"

"Money. How much money do you want?"

She laughs a wretched sound. "Are you serious? You think this is about money? You're delusional."

"Am I?" He nods toward our car. "Looks like you need some. I'm sure you're hardly making ends meet with that teacher's salary. Raising them all on your own, too, after what happened to poor D—"

"Fuck. You," Mama spits, churning my stomach. "You don't have the right to speak his name. He was ten times the man you'll ever be, and I couldn't care less about your money. Care to know what I really want? No—what I demand? You're going to stay the hell out of my life and away from my family. Or else I'll ensure we make headlines."

"Enough with the empty threats, Amber. You wouldn't do it. You don't have the gall. Besides, there's probably nothing on that camera."

"Try me."

Uncertainty flickers in his lethal gaze. Taking a considerable step, his voice lowers. "I'll never allow such a tape to exist."

Shying away, Mama buries the camera into her bag. Adrenaline spikes through my blood, tears welling in my eyes as I spot the fear emerging in hers.

"Hand it over, girl. If you know what's good for you."

He closes in faster, rolling up his sleeves, flashing muscled forearms and the sheer size he has over her. When she freezes in terror, a tear gliding down her cheek, he smirks and goes to grab the bag—

In a flash, Mama whips her hand from the tote, revealing a bright-green tube.

"Ahh!" Mr. Kingston cries out, stumbling backwards as liquid squirts across his eyes in a plume of mist. He hits the pavement— hard —before Mama races to the driver's seat.

Jer gasps beside me, cranking the window shut. We rush back to our seats, buckling ourselves in, and plaster bored expressions on our faces. Whether our act is believable doesn't seem to matter, because Mama bursts into the car on a crazed whirlwind, not uttering a single word. In seconds, we're speeding down the driveway.

And then I'm staring out the window with that inexplicable feeling in my gut. Thinking of Hayden—and his promise about next time. Wondering if this means I'll have to wait longer to visit the Kingstons again...

But there was never a next time.