Prologue

PROLOGUE

LINCOLN

EIGHT YEARS OLD

M y dad has another woman in the basement. I know because even through the warmth of my blankets in the comfort of my room, I can still hear her screams. I don't know who he has down there, I haven't seen her yet, but the sounds of her cries are echoing all around me. They aren't always like this, the girls he brings down there. Sometimes they try to go along with his games, or offer him the promise of things if he will just stop. Sometimes they make a little noise, but most of the time they don't scream at all. They are silent and accepting in the punishment he rains down on them, as if he is some sort of god. You'd think that would be better, that it would make it easier to forget they are there, but it isn't, because like them, I know exactly how their night will end.

Rain lashes against my window pane, the pitter patter of water droplets staining the glass, as thunder and lightning battle across the sky, but the only thing I can focus on are the girl's cries for help. I should help her, go down there and try to stop him, but I learned my lesson the first time I did that. My presence there didn't deter my father, no, it spurred him on, and when I tried to run he turned his violence against me. I could barely walk for a month after that, and he told my mom that I fell down the stairs, which she believed of course, because why wouldn't she?

My father is an upstanding member of society. His friends include police officers, judges and politicians, something he reminds me of constantly. It's why I keep his secret, why I help him sometimes. Not because I want to, but because if I don't, it will be my mother strapped to that table he loves so much, and I can't lose the one good thing I have in my life.

My mom is away this weekend, which I guess is why my dad has been bold enough to leave the door of his workshop open, and it's not like we have any neighbors around to hear him. No, it's just me, and him, and whomever he has chosen to be his next little doll.

If I just stay up here, hide under my covers and pretend to be asleep, then maybe, just maybe he won't come to me for help. Those are the worst nights, not the ones spent here in the comfort of my blankets, but the ones down there with him. The ones where I put eyeshadow on their dead eyes, lipstick on their lifeless lips, and brush through their blood-matted hair until they look perfect for him.

I guess I'm almost as bad as him, no, in fact I'm worse, because I know it's wrong, know it's sick, know that other boys' dads don't do the things mine does, yet still I help him. I still cover for him, and deep down, I still love him even though he's a monster, because despite everything he is still my father.

But if he's a monster, what does that make me?

Lights flash around me again, burning through my blanket, only this time they don't disappear. I peek my head out slowly to check, and there are no flashes of light, in fact the light is steady and bright, and getting closer by the second. That's not lightning. Panic swirls in my gut and with a quick glance towards the door, the girl's screams still as steady as before, I slide out of bed and tiptoe towards the window. The panic turns to terror as the lights disappear and the source of it comes into sight. I was right, it isn't lightning .

I'm banging on the window before I can even second guess making too much noise, but I have to warn her. I bang as hard and as loud as I can, yet thunder booms out around us once more and she doesn't even look up, just dashes from her car to the porch in an attempt to evade the storm. I'm running from my room before I even take my next breath, my heart thundering in my chest as I plead for my legs to move faster. I just have to get down there before her, just warn him, then maybe everything will be okay, maybe he won't hurt her.

The girl's cries are still loud and chilling as she screams the same two words over and over again.

Stop. Don't.

But I can't focus on that, on her, not right now.

There is a commotion as the front door opens and closes, the tossing of coats, and kicking off of shoes, and then I feel the pause as if I'm right there with her. I know she hears it, I know she feels the violence in the air as we breathe it in around us, yet still my feet don't move fast enough.

Her wet clothes leave a rushed trail behind her that I follow quickly, but by the time I reach the bottom floor of the house, it's too late, she's already here, she sees him.

And he sees her.

"Honey, you're home early," he purrs, no doubt a wicked smirk on his face, as my mother gasps, taking in what I am sure is a bloody scene before her. "You really should have called to let me know you were on your way."

I reach the bottom of the stairs now, staring down the long hallway that leads into my father's workshop. My mother stands blocking the doorway, her hands shaking as she cries, "Leo, what did you do?"

The girl is whimpering now. "Please," she begs, and sickness curls in the pit of my stomach, as I hear my father throw down his knife.

"What I was born to do," my father booms, pride lacing his every word, as I edge closer and closer to them. He's right, he was born like this, evil, but in his path he made me, and I know what I have to do.

All the nights I spent down here, all the moments he molded me into a shadow of himself have led me to this night right here. This is the night everything changes.

"Where is Lincoln, where is my baby boy?" my mother pleads, and tears gather in the back of my eyes. She isn't like him, or like me, she is good, pure, innocent, the best thing in my life, and now she will be forever tainted by the sins of my father. The ones I didn't stop.

"He's here, and he's right on time." My father beams, flicking his stare past my mother to me, and I reach her side just as he focuses the gun at her head. "Come here to me, my son," he demands, and with the weapon already taking aim, I push myself towards him without pause, my focus only on that long, silver barrel.

Maybe if I just listen to him he won't hurt her, maybe if I just do what he says, we will all get out alive. That's a lie I have been telling myself for months now, and I don't believe it anymore now than I did the first time I told myself that.

My father moves towards me, spinning me to face my mom with his gun still aimed. "I really wish you didn't see this, Hazel, because now I have no choice but to end this facade," he tells her, and my eyes flash widely around the room in an attempt to plan my next move.

But that's the problem with my father, he is always one step ahead.

The barrel presses into my head at the same time he curls his free hand around her neck. "Say goodbye to your mother, Lincoln," he demands with glee, and my entire world stops spinning.

"Dad, no!" I scream, trying to get away from him, but he whips the back of my head with the gun, before tossing it to the ground and gripping me tight.

"Mom," I cry, seeing both pain and fear in her eyes, which I am sure are a mirror image to my own, because I know I can't stop him, I can't beat him .

"You need to run, baby," she chokes out, gasped breaths falling from her mouth with every word, but I can't, I won't, I'm not leaving her.

"Mom, please," I beg, reaching my hands out to try and get to her, but my father just squeezes her neck even harder, and holds me back even tighter.

"I love you, Lincoln," she gasps, bringing her own hand up to reach out to mine, but just as I open my mouth to say it back, her stare goes blank, and her hand goes limp and drops back down to her side.

And now, like all those other girls before, my mother is dead.

My father killed her.