Page 35 of No More Secrets

Lucas leaves her side and goes into one of the bedrooms. She hears a drawer open and close. A white shirt with something printed on the back and a pair of basketball shorts drop in her arms. He opens a louvered door in the hallway to a small closet. Stacked inside is a washer and dryer.

“Leave your clothes. I’ll wash them later so you have them in the morning,” he says.

She hesitates, debating what to do. He could destroy her clothes and keep her captive. But he’s already told her she can leave at any time. Should she test him? Walk out the door right now? And go where? Sleeping outside tonight is the last thing she wants to do. She also wants to get out of the clothes Bob and Barton touched.

“All right,” she tells him.

She shuts and locks the door, turns on the vent and water, and when it’s scalding hot, she steps underneath the spray and sobs with relief. She’s alive. She’ll be clean. She’s going to sleep in a bed.

And right now, she doesn’t want anything more than that.

In the privacy of the bathroom, Shiloh lets herself go, where the water washes away her tears before they fall. Where the vent drowns out her sobs. She cries out her fear, frustration, and trauma, bawling over her mother, what happened with Ellis, and again tonight with Bob and Barton.

And for the first time in a while, she stops acting stronger than she feels. She lets herself be the fifteen-year-old girl she is.

Homeless. A runaway.

A sexual-assault victim.

A dreamer and a believer.

The whole mixed bag.

Shiloh sinks to the base of the tub and pulls her knees to her chin. She hugs her shins and lowers her forehead to her knees.

And she weeps.

17

Lucas stares blankly at the wall across from him. The shower runs down the hall. A car drives past the building, the noise crescendoing before it fades, and he has the sudden urge to look out the window to see if the car he swears followed him home from the game is still across the road. He should be halfway to anywhere but here by now, but he can’t leave Shiloh alone, not after that attack. Everything that could have happened to her...

Condensation drips on his knee. Plop. Plop. Plop.

They would have killed her if he hadn’t intervened.

The reality of what he did tonight sinks in. He put someone else before him. He’s more worried about her than that damn car out front. Someone could be following him. He could land in jail tomorrow.

He swears, tossing the corn that’s rapidly defrosting onto the table, wipes the moisture off his face with his shirt, and sighs heavily. He’s taking a risk harboring an unaccompanied minor. Him, a guy with a record and a warrant.

Now what’s he supposed to do with her?

He doesn’t know the first thing about handling kids, let alone a girl. He balked when Olivia tried to off-load Josh on him, and he’s his nephew. Lucas is the worst sort of role model in a family of crappy examples. Shiloh shouldn’t stay with him, and not because of the law. Granted, harboring an underage runaway in California isn’t illegal unless her parents are actively looking for her. But he can barely keep his own shit together.

Yet he can’t in good conscience talk her into returning home. She might have lied the other night about being an orphan. But she told the truth about her mother’s boyfriend. Tonight wasn’t the first time she’s been assaulted. He recognized her shame and disgust. He sees it on his own face whenever he spares his reflection a glance.

He also won’t notify the police or call CPS. He didn’t rescue her from one lion’s den only for her to land in another. From where he stands, it comes down to this: What does Shiloh want?

When he arrived home after juvenile probation, his parents never asked what he wanted. Neither did the authorities, his attorney, or the doctors. He was treated like a nonperson. Worthless and incapable of making decisions or thinking on his own. Sixteen, immature, and already a lost cause.He screwed up his life. There’s no hope for him now.His father’s words replayed so many times in his head that Lucas believed him—still believes him—so he let his parents manipulate him into every direction he didn’t want to take his life.

Looking back, he was too ashamed to speak up for himself. Too damaged to care. His gut tells him Shiloh is dealing with a similar sort of shame. The last thing he wants is to take away her voice. What happens next will be up to her.

He sighs wearily, dragging his hands down his face, wincing when he irritates the contusion on his cheekbone. They’ll talk in the morning. She’s traumatized, and he’s too tired and sore to string two words together.

The shower turns off. Pushing off the couch, he returns the peas and corn to the freezer. When he turns around, Shiloh appears in the kitchen. She looks like a drenched kitten, swimming in the shirt and gym shorts he gave her to wear. Her hair is combed back from her face and hangs long and damp down her back. Without the dirt, she looks younger than fifteen. Her eyes are huge, almost oversize for her petite face. Christ, she’s a baby.

“May I use the washer?” She shows him the pile of dirty clothes in her arms, and his switchblade drops. The metal thuds loudly on the linoleum floor.

They both look at the blade, then at each other. Her face drains of color. The room holds its breath. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare twitch.

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