Author's notes: Sorry for the extra week of waiting. With holidays and the end of the semester, updates will be a bit scarce. We are in the home stretch though, and I promise that this will be complete before the premier next month. Hopefully long before then, but you never know.

As usual, major thanks to Starophie and tunedtochords, who had to listen to extra doses of my frenetic ramblings this weekend.

XXX

"Hey, what do you want?"

"Oh, crap, I don't know, you go first."

"No, c'mon, can't you see I'm busy Instagramming? You go first!"

"Ugh, fine. I'll have a mocha - no, wait, a latte. The chocolate raspberry iced latte. Grande sized."

"Christy, this isn't like Starbucks. I'll have a medium nonfat latte, with whipped cream. See, right there, it says medium. Not grande!"

"Whatever. Ooh, let's take a picture of those muffins!"

Pour ice. Pour coffee. Pump syrup. Blend. Transfer to cup. Rinse, repeat. Try not to kill – or be intimidated by – thirteen-year olds.

If she divided things into individual steps, they seemed a little more manageable. Normally a hindrance, today the blender was a godsend, the roar blocking everything else out. For a blessed few seconds, she didn't have to look at anyone, didn't have to listen. She only had to breathe steady, contained breaths, concentrating on the patchwork of her rapidly fraying composure. Do not lose your shit, Jacob.

All told, there were currently fewer than twenty people in the Java Hut, herself included. Still, she felt completely surrounded. If she didn't have the counter as her shield, Callie thought she would have bolted hours ago, job security be damned. It didn't help that she was stuck working with Josh. He wasn't asking her any questions, but he wasn't a distraction, either. For as prissy as she was, Taylor had at least shown she could be discrete when the situation called for it. Callie thought that Taylor would have at least helped her feel not so trapped. She never thought she would live to see a shift where she preferred Taylor over anyone. Then again, after last night, anything was possible.

Mary Anne was in the back room, doing god-knew-what. She had given Callie an odd look earlier that morning, but Callie had barely made it in time to take the edge off the morning rush. If Mary Anne had any non-work related questions, they would have to wait. Hopefully for several days, by which time she would have forgotten about them entirely. Callie hadn't thought her bloodshot eyes were so apparent, but by the looks she was receiving, she had been mistaken.

Hell, was this all the stupid hangover's fault? She was moving slower than usual, but it was hard to distinguish between the after effects from the alcohol and those from…everything else. Was it the dehydration making her nauseated, or the fact that a father and son had been blocking her path to the front door for the last forty-five seconds? The minute this line died down, she'd make herself a coconut mocha. She hadn't had the time earlier, but maybe several shots of caffeine would miraculously make people stop looking at her zombie-like movements with either disinterested annoyance or mild curiosity.

She rasped out a finished drink order, incredibly relieved as the father she had been staring at collected it, immediately hustling his son out the door. Her throat was raw, even though she didn't remember screaming, last night or otherwise. She turned back to the line, where a daughter and her mother were arguing about whether she was old enough to have coffee. Was this becoming a habit among families?

Or maybe only in this particular family. Somehow, Callie found herself making eye contact with Stef's daughter, who was mid-eye roll. She gave Callie a reluctant grin, probably to appease her mother.

"We're working on improving those smoothies," she found herself blurting. What was it about this family? She hadn't managed to make a single scrap of worthwhile conversation in the two hours she'd been working, and here she was, not only starting one, but managing to hold this girl's gaze.

"Good, cause that last one was…a little bland."

"I know." God, she wasn't supposed to insult their drinks to a customer! Her horror must have shown on her face, because the girl genuinely laughed. Beside her, Lena offered Callie a smile, and she soaked up the normalcy, the constricting tension in her chest easing up the tiniest bit.

"I'll have a medium chai, and she'll have a medium iced vanilla bean."

Her response was automatic. "Coffee or cream based?"

"Cream," the daughter said, at the same time that Lena overrode her with 'coffee."

The daughter smiled like Lena had just given her a freakin' pony. "Just this once," Lena told her, grinning back and squeezing her shoulder. Reaching for ice, totally transfixed by the interplay on the other side of the counter, the underside of Callie's arm smacked the espresso machine. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. The pain was surprising, not so much in its intensity as its unexpectedness. For the last two minutes, she had completely forgotten about the night before.

"Are you all right?" Lena's eyes were back on her now, and she nodded, tossing what was probably more grimace than grin over her shoulder. It had all come back in a searing flash, and she concentrated on blending, on anything to avoid eye contact.

It had taken everything Callie had to look up at people all morning, but she suddenly felt unwilling to miss a second of interaction. God, this stupid family was like a magnet, with her unable to resist their gravitational pull for long. She met Lena's gaze, forced herself not to look away. "Do you need a latte for Stef as well?" After all, there was a chance she was just taking her time parking.

"Nope, it's just the two of us today." Well, that explained the acquiescence over the coffee drama. She felt a sharp, inexplicable urge to cry, looking away from Lena before she had a chance to notice.

Callie shot their daughter another half-smile instead, but she was absorbed with her phone. If only Lena could be placated so easily. Looking at her made Callie think of Jude, and of the quiet, gentle way she had with him. Jude was kind to everyone, but he did not give smiles out easily. Lena had gotten one in under an hour, and if Callie weren't running on autopilot and the disappointed certainty that she wouldn't be seeing Stef after all, that would mean a hell of a lot more to her.

Autopilot didn't impede her ability to make drinks, not after this long. If only Callie's father could see her now. He had grown increasingly frustrated with his wife's inability to make cocktails to his specifications, and here his daughter was, four years later, practically a bartender. She pictured him throwing his head back, guzzling coffee laced whisky and clapping Liam on the shoulder. "Atta boy! You know how to treat a broad when they step outta line."

"That looks like it hurts." Lena's tone was mild enough that her daughter didn't even glance up from her phone, but Callie jumped, nearly spilling the chai that she didn't remember finishing. She saw Lena seeing the marks around the wrist of her dominant hand - bruises by now that were looking far too close to fingerprints for Callie's comfort. "What happened there?" Just one sentence, but it told Callie all she needed to know about how she had gained Jude's trust. Her question was low, unassuming. No, all the intensity was in Lena's face, eyes dark and piercing straight into Callie's. She saw Stef in that moment, but while Stef's intensity made her feel obligated to lay bare her secrets, this just made her want to cry.

"Oh, nothing, just a stupid accident." Thankfully, Lena didn't pursue her questioning, fierceness giving way to wordless compassion as she took her drink. Ten minutes ago, the line had mocked Callie, and now, she welcomed a fresh influx of teens. Lena finally turned to pay Josh, leaving Callie alone to finish the last bit of her daughter's coveted coffee. The fog of her low-grade panic had broken by their conversation, but that ultimately left her feeling far more exposed and out of sorts.

"Be careful," Lena murmured as she accepted her daughter's finished drink, quietly enough that Callie could have misheard. She thought of Jude, his similar warning echoing in her head, and couldn't suppress a shiver.

XXX

She was home by early afternoon, the house just as quiet as she'd left it. Hannah had been in the kitchen, immersed in her laptop and coffee earlier that morning, but her car was gone now, as was Phil's. He was undoubtedly out playing golf, his usual Saturday afternoon pastime, but Hannah's exploits were more of a mystery. Callie had never found herself wishing for either of their company, but now, coming in through the garage door, she couldn't help hoping that at least one of them would pull in behind her. Although, they had been home last night, and look how much security that had provided.

She tried to tell herself that Liam was still asleep, even though the lingering scent of grilled cheese said otherwise. She tried to tell herself he was probably as out of it as she had been this morning, but the idea of him with a hangover was laughable. He hadn't even seemed that drunk last night. Buzzed, sure. But Liam hadn't been like her, unable to walk or speak in complete sentences.

The frying pan was still on the stove, and she began making her own sandwich, her first real meal of the day, not counting coffee. Mary Anne had wanted to take Callie to lunch. She had escaped under the excuse of homework, a rebellious part of her wishing Mary Anne weren't so easily placated. Both her bosses had done so much for her yesterday, it wasn't fair for her to crave more. Regardless, Callie's entire walk home had been haunted by the concerned faces of two women, and the constant regret that she hadn't seen a third.

Jeez, CJ, what happened to you? She could almost hear Stef asking the question, see her unconsciously reaching across the counter for a closer inspection. Or, if she had come at the end of her shift instead: Callie, hold up a minute. Come over here, sit down. Tell me what's going on.

She might have asked her exactly that, but Callie highly doubted Stef's sympathies would have remained when she heard the truth. God, you stupid girl, what were you thinking? I thought drinking coffee was the worst thing you could do at your age, but you're even more of a screw-up than I realized. This is the last time Lena and I are ever coming here.

She shook her head, glaring down at the frying pan as though it were responsible for her treacherous thoughts. None of that had actually happened, and it never would. She didn't work again until tomorrow afternoon, and by then, she vowed she would be better. There wasn't much she could do for the bruises, but she would not allow herself to be so overwhelmed by customers, not when she would be sharing her standard shift with Taylor. She had just over a day to get this twisting panic out of her system, and it would just have to be long enough.

Suddenly, she was no longer alone. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and that fist of constant tension cut off her air supply completely. Turn around, coward. Fingers locking around the spatula, she managed to fractionally turn her head.

"Hey." His sock-clad footfalls had been silent, and she nearly dislodged the frying pan from the burner at the feel of him directly behind her. "Missed you this morning. Your bed really sucks, y'know." Moist lips kissed their way down the back of her neck, and she leaned over the stove, having nowhere else to go. "We'll hafta do something about that."

He looked so…normal. Sleep-tousled hair, baggy sweatpants, no shirt. She wanted to slap him with the butter-covered spatula. She wanted to sob.

"No one made you stay there." She was trying for aloof, but her voice came out barely above a whisper. If he hadn't been so close, it could have easily been lost in the hiss of frying butter.

"Aww, is someone hungover?" Strong, sure fingers digging into her shoulder blades. Fingers, yanking down her underwear; pulling, tearing, hurting.

She nearly gave herself second-degree burns in her haste to escape. Turning off the flame with barely steady hands, she spun to face him directly. "Hey, what was that for?"

"Are we just going to pretend…don't you want to talk about last night?"

He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek. "Sure. It was good, right? You had fun? I said I missed you—"

Oh god, why would he not stop touching her? "No, it wasn't good."

His smile turned mocking. "Well, they say first times can suck for girls." The tears were back, like clockwork. "Oh, jeez, are we really gonna do the crying after sex thing? You're just full of clichés."

He didn't get it. It was taking all she had to just have this conversation, to even meet his eyes, and he had no idea. "I didn't even want it, Lee." The nickname slipped out without her permission, and she bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

That damned smirk of his didn't once falter. "Sure you did."

"No, you did." Just like last night, she was protesting, and just like last night, he was still refusing to hear her. She shoved past him, relieved that Liam's confusion was too great for him to think about stopping her. He yelled something about the sandwich, but she was already racing up the stairs to lean over the toilet. Of course, there was nothing in her stomach, so she just dry heaved several times, her tears giving way to full-out sobbing.

I told you so, the voice in her head from that morning singsonged, and she didn't have the strength to argue, even with herself. If she were to go back downstairs, if she could make him understand…

Then what? An apology wouldn't make her feel better. His tone had made it abundantly evident that he didn't regret anything. He had wanted this to happen for weeks, and had simply gotten tired of waiting.

Last Christmas, Liam had wanted some sort of fancy new golf clubs. They all knew he would be getting them, but the week before the holiday he had torn the house apart, ripping them open then and there so he and Phil could go out and play nine holes.

She had been like those golf clubs, like the request for just one drink before dinner. If Liam pestered his parents for something long enough, they would give in. If they didn't, he went ahead and took what he wanted. He had heard her perfectly last night, he simply hadn't cared to listen. Had he ever cared, about any of it?

There wasn't time to think about all of this. She could not stay here, not when she had no idea when Phil and Hannah would be back. It could be in a half an hour, or in three, and in the meantime, Liam was clearly interested in spending time together. She couldn't stay, but where could she go?

She could hear him now, washing the frying pan she'd left behind. Liam never did chores without an agenda, specifically her chores. He would be up to find her when he was done, and she couldn't allow that to happen. She was paralyzed with panic, the edge of the bathroom counter digging into her palms. Despite roiling moments before, her stomach growled with hunger. She was helpless, hollow.

How many people had asked if she was all right this morning, and how many had she rebuffed? Callie had no one to blame for this but herself. She could be at lunch with Mary Anne right now, answering awkward questions, but indisputably safe. Instead, she was here, with no one but Liam, who had gone from the person always in her corner to someone unrecognizable, literally over night.

When Callie's mother had been killed and her father incarcerated, people had thought she would feel alone. She hadn't. She had been scared, angry, betrayed, but not alone. She had Jude, and he was her responsibility. "Look after each other," her mother had always said when putting them to bed. Their apartment had two bedrooms, so from the time Jude was a baby, his crib had been in with Callie.

That last night, a rare one when both her parents were leaving together and actually in a good mood about it, she had been put in charge. They were all in agreement that ten was much too old for a babysitter, and she had been delighted at the prospect of being responsible for their usual evening routine.

"Look after each other," her mother had said, blowing them each a kiss. That was steadier than I love you or don't talk to strangers. It spoke more to Callie than all the mantras combined. Looking back on it, she wondered if Joanne had used it to distance herself from responsibilities. Her mother had truly loved them, but had also been barely twenty-eight when she was killed.

Still, both of them had taken the saying to heart. "What happens if something goes bad?" Jude had asked her once. Neither of their parents had been home in over twenty-four hours, and they were running out of milk, not to mention Frosted Flakes to eat with it. "What if Mommy's never coming back?"

"Then I'm in charge."

"What if something happens to you?"

"Then you're in charge."

"But…I don't know how!"

"Mom says pretend something 'til you do. Like right now, pretend these Frosted Flakes are lasagna."

Sometimes, she felt like she'd been pretending to accept things her whole life, and now, in this bathroom with awful molding, she couldn't do it anymore. She yearned for Jude. He might not be able to make things better, but he would give her a renewed perspective. Jude had never liked Liam. He had never said so directly, that wasn't his style. But she knew Jude better than she knew herself. Her brother had somehow known not to trust him. Be careful, he had warned her outright, but Callie had refused to listen. Be careful, Lena had said, but it was already too late. God, she didn't deserve any of them.

If Jude were here, what would he say? He wasn't the type for I told you so. He wouldn't be mad with her, not right now. Later, certainly, but not when she was this terrified. She wished there was someone, anyone else here. Not necessarily to help her think, as much to say, you are not alone.

She didn't remember wandering into her brother's partially-transformed room. The clothes Jude had outgrown were still folded neatly on the shelves of the half-open closet, the poster of dinosaurs she'd gotten him for Christmas hanging on the wall over the stripped bed where she had spent her night. As though waiting for her, Double Fudge was sitting in its usual spot on his desk. She sank onto Jude's bed with it, though her eyes were too blurred to read. That stupid cat bookmark was still in place mid-way through the novel, in a section about Hawaiian something or other. Judy Blume couldn't help her out of this. Things had gone quiet downstairs, and she did not want to contemplate what that might mean.

With nothing else to do, she opened the book, something falling from between the front cover and first page. Hadn't she been the last one to read this, the night before Jude had run away? He had refused any offers for her to pick up, either where they had left off, or where he himself might have read to, though she had stopped asking after his second night home. Had he written her a note, and she'd just never thought to look? No, surely he would have said something about that on the phone. She retrieved the mystery rectangle, too thick to be scratch paper, but not glossy enough for a photo.

Officer Steffanie Foster

San Diego Police Department

The paperback slid off her lap as she stroked reverent fingers over the raised logo of the police department, relief stealing the breath from her lungs. Without even knowing it, Jude had come through for her.

XXX

She had never been in Phil and Hannah's bedroom before. As with the rest of the house, it was perfectly neat. Callie often wondered if Hannah expected a photographer for some kind of home redecorating show to call her up at random, announcing that they'd be over in the hour for a house wide photo shoot.

She was only in here to grab their cordless. Like the rest of the country, Phil and Hannah were glued to their cell phones, but Callie was almost positive there was still a handset for their landline in here somewhere. Yes, there it was, on the nightstand by Phil's side of the bed, nearly hidden by a Glenn Beck hardcover. She grabbed it, preparing to go back the way she had come.

On the other hand, Liam would never think to look for her in here. His parents' door was always closed, so this might buy her a bit more precious time. She felt stupid, hiding from him like he was some kind of Boogeyman.

Except, it sort of felt like he was.

There wasn't anywhere she felt comfortable sitting, which was fine. Pacing might help her to figure out what she wanted to say. It had to be just right, which meant she needed to come to terms with last night in her head before she called. How could she ever expect Stef to take her seriously, if she couldn't even believe in what she was saying?

It would help that Stef didn't like Liam, had seen him angry. Of course, that was when Stef had thought he was just Callie's boyfriend. What if Stef really did say that this was what happened to girls who dated their foster brothers, who not only drank coffee, but alcohol as well?

Well, then she would just have to call Bill. She had called his office once before, when their first foster mother hadn't fed her or Jude for over twenty-four hours. Bill still hadn't shown up until the next day, which was amazing turn around for him.

She did not want to have to make that second call. She would have to trust Stef, would have to say to her what she could not admit to herself, because no one else would come in time. Even though Callie had asked for it, even though it was all her own fault, she didn't want it to happen again.

She dialed before she could talk herself out of it. Stef's phone rang once, twice, three times, and Callie heard her own breaths in the pauses between each ring, rapid bursts of snot filled static echoing back down the line. She shoved the card in her pocket, not wanting to wrinkle it between ringing hands. Stef's voicemail clicked on, and she hadn't been kidding about this being her personal number. Her outgoing message was something about avoiding calls, and Callie desperately hoped this one would not fall on that list. The beep was shrill in her ear. She cleared her throat, but her voice still trembled over Stef's name.

"Stef, hi, um. This, this is Callie. I'm sorry to bother you while you're working, but last night, I was… I was kind of atta – no. I uh. I was raped…"

She had to take a few seconds to try and catch her breath then; it wouldn't help anything if the message was completely incomprehensible through her tears. "Um, god, I'm sorry. It was – it was Lee – my foster brother. It's, it's just us here now, and I don't know…I'm really scar – could you, could you maybe call me back? Please?"

She hung up without including a number, or even saying goodbye, sinking down hard on the corner of the bed.

Liam had raped her.

Rape was a word that carried a lot of weight, a word you heard on the news or bad teen movies, not…not something that someone actually did to you. Especially not your secret boyfriend, and especially not on your birthday.

Except that Liam had done all those things, and she didn't have time to hide from it, not if she didn't want it to happen again. To punctuate her statement, she heard him yelling her name as he climbed the stairs. If she had waited any longer to make that call, he might have heard. It was tempting to stay in here, maybe crawl into the back of Phil and Hannah's walk-in closet for the rest of her life.

Except, beyond the fear, she was mad, and she wanted Liam to know – wanted him to be as terrified as she had been for the last twelve hours. Sticking the phone in her back jeans pocket, she went to face the music.

XXX

Author's notes: Remember, things have to get worse before they can get better. Don't shoot the author!