School lets out. My personal hell begins. Each day, while my mother and Bob are out doing married couple things, my tormentor lets himself into the house and inside of me. I can't escape. I have nowhere to run, no safe haven. Not even my own room.

"Ana, what's wrong?"

I blearily look up from the cereal I'm contemplating to find my mother's concerned face. My Cinnamon Toast Crunch has grown soggy, the milk littered with cinnamon dust, as I drop my spoon back into the bowl.

"What? Nothing's wrong."

I try not to think of the first—and only—time I tried to speak up. When Christian found out I'd tried to talk to Kate about it, he pinned me down on back porch and punished me. He'd promised me he'd kill me if I ever told, and the fire in his eyes made me believe he meant every word.

Now as I look at my mother's face, creased with concern and heartbreak, I can't imagine how much it would break her if I told her "Uncle" Christian has sneaking into my room since I was eleven. Five long, un-ending years of agony, of fear, of isolation, of desperation.

"Just tired," I lie and push my soggy cereal underneath the milk.

"Ana, please. Something's wrong."

My phone buzzes. A text from José. A Godsend. I answer it and feel the lump in my throat grow bigger. It's not José but Kate.

We need to talk.

"I have to go. Kate wants to hang out." I jump to my feet and pour my cereal into the bin before I breeze out the door without waiting for my mother's response. My heart's jack-rabbiting in my chest, slamming into my fragile bone, as I walk briskly down the driveway, my hair streaming around my face.

What does she want to talk about? I can't think of anything. My breathing has quickened, panicked, as I hear a door slam somewhere; I hope it's not behind me. I hope it's not my mother or Bob. I can't stomach looking at them, knowing what I've been hiding form them.

Kate's Mercedes whips into the driveway and idles. I take a deep breath before I climb inside.

"Hey," I say in a cheery voice that belies that pounding of my heart. My sweaty hands clench around the fabric of my shorts.

"Hi," she says softly as she puts the car into reverse and peels out of the driveway. She doesn't say anything else as she drives. The silence is making my stomach ache so I reach over and turn on the radio. She turns it off immediately. "What's going on with you?" she asks tightly.

I freeze before I force myself to laugh. "What do you mean?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at her. She doesn't smile or look at me; if anything, her serious expression gets fiercer, more intense, her hands creaking on the steering wheel. "I've just been—"

"Tired. You know, I pegged you as a lot of things but a liar wasn't one of them." The anger, the venom, in the words make me reel back. They're a physical strike to my tender, raw insides and I suck in a sharp breath, shocked at the pain. I'd thought at this point, I wouldn't be able to hurt anymore, not with what Christian puts me through on a daily basis but Christ, does it burn and sting, her words piercing through my vulnerable, shredded insides.

"What're—"

Kate slams on the breaks, and I choke on the seat belt, clawing at the fabric. I recognize the parking lot we're in, a community park near the house. "What's going on with you?" she demands, her face tear-stained and hurt and angry and frightened when she turns to face me, her eyes bloodshot.

"I can't tell you," I whisper when I find my voice.

"Yes, you can, Ana. I'm your best friend."

I'll fucking kill anyone you tell, Ana. You and I both know I have more than enough money to make you and them disappear, he'd told me on that long, painful night so long ago. I believed him then and I believe him now. I've seen it first-hand. A boy who'd had a crush on me going missing. A teacher who's class I was having trouble in's car vandalized. When the cops came to investigate everything, there was a bit of a fuss from him and then the cops backed off. When I asked about it, he'd patted my hand and told me that money and influence was a wonderful thing. I thought it was a horrible thing.

"I can't," I rasp, sucking in deep lungfuls to try and calm myself, curling in. I can't let him hurt her. I won't let him hurt her. I'll be good and not tell a soul. I'll keep the secret until I die or until he kills me, whichever comes first.

"Ana, yes, you can," Kate says.

"He'll kill you. Or me. Or both of us." I'm crying openly now, burying my face in the knobby bones of my knees as I tremble and shake in Kate's passenger seat. "I know he will."

"I'm going to take a guess, Ana, and you don't have to tell me if I'm right or not, okay?"

Her voice is soft and cautious like I'm a frightened rabbit she's trying to rehabilitate.

"It's Christian, isn't it?"

My heart stops. My body goes stock-still. Every muscle clenches tight at the mere mention of him, and the burn of bile crawls up my throat.

"Oh, Ana." Kate puts her hand on mine and squeezes as she begins to sob.