Page 106 of Under the Bed

We’ll get out of here. He’ll be safe.

Later. Just after he’s done shoving the collar of my dress back. Just after he looks at my scar. That painful memory among many that I’ve been carrying throughout the years.

He’ll make it better for me.

Then we’ll leave.

His fingers are hot on my back where he grips the fabric of my dress. It’s as though all his rage concentrates there.

And his breaths, they’re heaved and ominous.

His last exhale before he tears the mask off his face is jagged.

His golden eyes are furious. Narrowed and full of fire as the mask falls to the floor.

One arm around my waist, the other hand on my chin, squeezing it as he’s tipping my head up.

“Shiloh.” One word that’s laden with promises. With death threats.

I won’t defend the undefendable, but this conversation needs to happen somewhere else.

“I—”

“‘I’ nothing,” he snaps. “Who did this to you?”

18

KALEB

The last time my blood ran this hot was eleven years ago.

I resented and despised the way her dad shouted at her. His bullying and belittling of her.

Many nights, I’d lie in bed, fantasizing about killing him. Hands around his throat. Pushing his eyes back into his brain while he slept. Forcing my mother to defecate, then drowning him in her shit.

And every morning, I woke up different. I had a mission.

Killing him would’ve landed me in prison. Shiloh would’ve ended up in foster care.

So I had to stay. I had to protect her.

In the end, I couldn’t save her from this.

This scar, in the shape of a belt, is the proof. It reaches down her back where her clothes hide it.

So even though I’ve got a good fucking guess who’s responsible for it, I ask again.

“Answer me.” I’m doing everything in my power not to shake her. Not to force the words out of her. I’m a ticking time bomb. I don’t trust myself not to hurt her irreparably. “Answer me right the fuck now. Who did this to you?”

There are things to take care of. A body to hide. Fingerprints to wipe.

Nothing matters. Nothing.

That scar.

“Dad.” Tears rise to her eyes, stop there on her thick eyelashes. And here they are, cascading down her flushed cheeks. “I came home for the summer. That first year after you were gone. After you left me.”

The accusation is a slap to the face. I embrace it. I’ve earned it. “What did he do?”

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