Prologue

"What are you doing?

At the sound of my father's booming voice, I jump up from the beanbag chair in the corner of my bedroom and face him.

Crap. It's almost dark out. I'm going to get in so much trouble. "I'm sorry. I was reading. I lost track of time."

My father fills the entire doorway. The scowl on his face makes me wince. "Reading. Always reading," he growls as he stomps into the room.

I back up into the corner as he marches toward me. My heart races. He's going to hit me. Or whip me. I'm in big trouble.

I gasp when he bends down and grabs my book from where I dropped it on the beanbag chair. He tucks it under his arm before reaching for the stack of books on my bedside table next. Without a word, he carries the entire pile out of the room.

Oh, God . This is bad. I run after him. I don't care what he does to punish me, but I don't want him to take my books. "Dad, please…"

He ignores me and continues through the house and out the back door.

My heart nearly stops when he balances the books in one arm and opens the metal trash can with the other. He dumps the bundle into the can before turning to me.

"Please," I beg. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I'll get dinner ready now." I stare at the can, hoping it's not filled with anything wet or gross. Maybe in the middle of the night when he's sleeping I can sneak out here and get my books back.

He's too calm as he drops the lid to the trash can on the cracked concrete. I cover my ears at the very loud clanging crash. This patio used to be a nice slab with pretty furniture and a fancy propane BBQ. In the last few years, the yard has turned into an overgrown weedfest. The patio furniture is long gone. All that's left is a worn lawn chair and a small charcoal BBQ. Most nights my father sits on that chair and smokes.

He pulls his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes one onto his palm before lighting it and taking a long draw. "You're lazy."

I swallow. I won't bother arguing with him. It won't do any good. "I'm sorry. I lost track of time." I'm kicking myself. I'm supposed to have dinner ready at six, not a minute later. I messed up. I'm going to pay.

"Sorry. Always sorry. Sorry doesn't put dinner on the table, Lacey. I'm too soft with you. It's time for you to grow the fuck up. You're twelve years old."

I try not to cry. Tears gather in my eyes. I hold my breath, willing them not to fall.

"I work hard to keep a roof over our heads and food in the fridge, Lacey. You're an ungrateful brat. Your mother was too soft on you."

The tears break free at the mention of my mother. I miss her so much. Cancer stole her from me two years ago, and my father has been mean and angry ever since.

Granted, he was mostly mean and angry even before my mother died, but he's been worse since then. He takes his wrath out on me.

The truth is I could have had dinner on the table promptly at six. I could have prepared his favorite meatloaf cooked to perfection and handed him a cold beer when he stepped in the house. Even if I'd done everything right, he still might have lashed out at me.

It doesn't take much. It's not even predictable. The food could have been too hot or cold. The chair could have been sticking out from the table too far and caused him to run into it with his hip. The placemat could have been crooked.

I've learned I cannot please my father, but I still try. Most of the time. Books are my refuge. I get to go to another world when I read them. Escape. Sometimes I get sucked in and lose track of time.

My father takes several long draws on his cigarette, tipping his head back to blow smoke in the air. It's gross. It stinks. Mom didn't let him smoke in the house, but now that she's gone, he smokes everywhere. I can't escape it.

I always have a cough. I know it's from the smoke, but my father refuses to acknowledge that. It's just another thing for him to get annoyed with me about, especially when I cough in the night and wake him up.

I consider backing into the house to start dinner. I don't like the way he's standing here staring at me. He's far too calm. It's scaring me.

When I take a step backward, he barks out, "Don't move." He takes two more long draws on his gross cigarette and flicks it into the trashcan without putting it out.

I wince. Please, God. Don't let it catch my books on fire .

My father's gaze is menacing as he unbuckles his belt and tugs it free of his pants.

I suck in a sharp breath and clench my butt cheeks. This is going to be bad.

"Pull your dress up and lean over the side of the trashcan, Lacey," he growls. "You need to learn a lesson."

When I hesitate too long, he whips the metal end of his belt against the metal can. It bangs loudly, ringing in the air. "Now!"

I hurry forward, pull my dress up, and hold it in my hands against the side of the can. Tears fall freely. I don't care as much about the belt as I do the cigarette that is smoldering against a paper towel.

"Don't you dare move, you ungrateful brat. Ten lashes with the belt. If you move, I'll start over."

The first lash takes my breath away. He's never struck me that hard.

My father leans over and speaks closer to my face. "Count, Lacey. Show me you've at least learned something in that school you go to."

When I inhale his scent, I realize he's drunk. That scares me more. He's worse when he's drunk.

"Count!" he screams.

I jump. Luckily I don't drop my dress. "One." My voice squeaks.

He swings the belt back and strikes me again.

"Two." My butt burns. I've never felt this kind of pain. The temperature outside is cool tonight, and the cold air makes me aware of every stripe he's putting on me. My panties do nothing to protect me from his wrath.

I focus on the smoke coming out of the trash can in front of me. It's getting worse. Tears are running down my face as my father continues to whip me harder with each stroke. I count, but I'm not really inside my body. I'm inside my book. The one I was reading when he interrupted me.

I've read it before. I've read all of them before. My books are my prized possessions. They're all I have that I care about. He didn't take all of them, just the ones on my nightstand. But those are my favorites. My mother bought them for me.

I cry harder as the corner of one of my books catches on fire and small flames flicker to life. I want to reach in with my bare hands, rescue my books, and put out the flames, but I don't dare.

I barely notice when the last blow lands against my flesh. I'm pretty sure I'm bleeding in a few places, but all I can do is stare in horror at my books. The flames are growing. My fingers are getting hot where I'm gripping the edge of the can.

Suddenly my father grabs the back of my dress and yanks me so hard the wind is knocked out of me. I stumble backward and fall on my beaten butt.

I cry out at the pain as I land on the dirty concrete covered with cigarette butts that my father didn't bother to toss into the trash can. He's screaming at me, but I can't hear the words. All I can do is sob as I watch the flames grow higher and higher.

My books are gone. My heart is broken into a million pieces. I hate him.

I hate him.

I hate him.