“Almost there,” Deena mumbled as we drove through a street so densely lined with trees that I had a hard time seeing past to the houses behind them. Deena turned onto a long, winding driveway where large, leafy oaks and honeysuckles blocked the house from view until we rounded a curve. At this point, I’d half-expected to see some sort of lodge.
Instead, the white-trimmed, light blue house might have been ripped out of a Southern Living magazine—complete with a white picket fence. My guard went up. It was too perfect. From the fresh-cut grass to the carefully-placed porch flowers, it seemed to promise all of the things I never had. Things like sipping lemonade on the shaded porch or playing catch on the mowed lawn. Maybe even picking vegetables from the side garden with Mom while Grandma made apple pie in the kitchen—feel-good movie stuff like that. I didn’t trust it.
Deena cut the engine and gave me a reassuring smile.
It didn’t work. If anything, it made me more nervous.
For most of the car ride, I’d alternated between worrying about Caleb and trying not to barf. But now, I wished I’d taken a few minutes to figure out what to say when I met my foster mom. Deena had already told Ms. Reid the basics—I was a seventeen-year-old victim of domestic abuse just released from the hospital, and my dad beat my brother into a coma.
Deena might as well have taken a red sharpie and scribbled “major issues” across my forehead.
The driver door closed with a thud. Eight shoe clicks later, Deena stood in front of the porch, waving me forward.
None of this mattered—at least, that’s what I told myself. But every step toward the white front door seemed to matter a lot. Each step led me closer to the unknown and further from Caleb.
As I climbed the porch steps, my feet met solid, unyielding concrete.
Deena crowded me from behind, reaching around to ring the doorbell. She hovered close, bumping into the back of my shoulder. When I shifted to the side, she did too.
Deena didn’t have to corner me. I wasn’t stupid enough to try another escape again—at least, not without keys. And even then, I had too much to lose; Deena’d made it clear I’d run out of chances. Next time I did something “reckless,” I’d make sure I had awesome odds of it working. 70-30, at least.
Ms. Reid opened the door, her smile stretching across her face like a pair of never-worn skinny jeans.
Maybe by this point I was half expecting it, because I barely flinched when I saw the colorless outline that Ms. Reid’s body mostly overlapped. If anything, I was counting my blessings that my drugged-up brain decided to assign her the not-so-freaky hallucination. Her shadow’s pointed ears were obvious only because she’d drawn her hair up into a casual bun.The rest blended into her body, concealed by the dimming afternoon light. What bothered me more than the fact that I was still hallucinating were her glacial blue eyes. Their piercing gaze clashed with the relaxed maxi dress she wore—like she’d put on a costume that didn’t quite match her personality. Ms. Reid’s gaze lingered over my bruises and busted lips, her expression remaining a steady mask of politeness.
“Ms. Reid,” Deena said, reaching over me to shake her hand. “I’m Deena Pritchard. It’s so nice to meet you in person. This” —she waved toward me— “is Kella.”
Ms. Reid nodded at me. “Welcome home. Please, come in.” Ms. Reid’s voice had the slightest lilt to it—something foreign that didn’t quite belong in the apple pie and lemonade house. The disparity made me feel a little better knowing I wouldn’t be the only one failing to live up to the house’s silent expectations of an old-fashioned American family.
As we entered the foyer, some guy bounced down the stairs with yet another humanoid hallucination attached to him—something I told myself would be easy enough to ignore.
He looked to be a little younger than me, with a pale face and black hair. Freckles ran across the bridge of his nose and an over-large mouth twisted into a grin—the kind that made people want to smile back.
I didn’t.
My gaze swerved to Deena, her eyebrows raised just as high as mine were.
I’d asked Deena if there were other kids. “No.” She’d said it as if the idea of another kid around me was appalling. Then she laughed it off, saying she would have killed to have her own room in foster care. No other kids in her space. I was lucky.
“Is this a nephew?” Deena’s smile was a little uncertain.
“No, my foster son,” Ms. Reid said, her tight smile clinging to her lips like spray paint.
“But…wait a second.” Deena set down her purse and flipped through a manila folder. She stopped, releasing a deep breath. “You must be…” She glanced up from the sheet. “Mickey.” Deena frowned, thumbing through a few more papers.
Wow—that was unfortunate. My name was ironic. Warrior. My mom should’ve named me something that meant “does-dumb-things-and-her-brother-almost-dies.” But Mickey… Well, it was hard not feeling bad for a kid whose parents named him after a cartoon mouse.
“Yep, that’s me,” he said, owning it.
I eyed him, his lanky frame at odds with his confident air.
Deena frowned at the paper with his name on it. When she looked up, her eyebrows seemed stuck together. “For some reason…” She glanced down at the paperwork again before looking back at Ms. Reid. “I was thinking you didn’t have other kids here. Kella’s a very” —she paused, searching for the right words— “special placement.”
Special. If that wasn’t
