Page 1 of Frozen Hearts
PROLOGUE
The hinges on the bedroom door creak, and everything within me collapses. My lungs deflate. My heart tries to leap from my chest. My muscles go rigid with fear. I’ve come to associate that slow, agonizing screech with everything horrific that has happened in my life. It’s the doorbell signaling the arrival of the Devil. A harbinger of imminent pain and suffering as his shadow slips into the room, growing in size on the wall in front of me as his malevolent presence chokes the air in my throat.
I cower in fear. Squeeze my eyes shut to the point of pain, hoping he might change his mind. Just this once. Only for tonight. My heart thrashes so loudly, I struggle to hear the soft pad of his socked feet against the carpet.
It feels like forever, yet not enough time passes before he’s standing over me. Towering. Looming. Pricking. Prodding. Teasing. Tempting.Savoring. I know when he’s there. Can feel his presence the same way the sick or elderly can sense the Grim Reaper when he comes to claim their souls for himself. And still, I do not move. Do not dare to even breathe.
Pretend to be asleep.
Pretend to be asleep.
Pretend to be asleep.
The plea plays on repeat in my head as though, if I can only wish hard enough for it, it’ll actually come true.
I’m not certain it would make a difference, even if it did.
Regardless, I’ve learned by now there are no fairy godmothers or genies in bottles here to grant me wishes. Fairytales are nothing but pretty lies written in sharp black ink. Fantasies to fill the minds of young children until reality crashes brutally into their naive lives. Mesmerizing at the time; devastating when it’s over.
“My sweet girl,” he hushes, his fingers brushing over the top of my head. My muscles are locked so tight that my whole body trembles with the physical strain, giving away my pretense. Not that I had him fooled. He knew. Healwaysknows.
His hand moves lower, and I choke on a cry too late, burying my teeth in my lower lip as a strangled whimper leaks out.
“Shhh,” he soothes as his fingers curl around the covers and slowly peel them away. Cold air rushes in, prickling my skin like sharp needles, and still, I keep my eyes squeezed shut. If I don’t see it, it’s not real, right? Oh, how I wish that were true.
The dark brings out the worst kind of monsters. The kind that cannot be banished by wishing on stars or shining a flashlight under the bed. The kind that makes you feel dirty in your own skin. That steals pieces of you and refuses to take care of them, returning them shattered and tarnished. Unrecognizable.
The mattress dips, his familiar weight crushing me as his fingers find their possessive home on my hip. The warm puff of his breath against my neck smells like sulfur, burning against my skin.
I used to hope, pray, plead,begfor someone—anyone—to walk in, to see this, to stop it.
To help me.
Tosaveme.
Wishes stacked on wishes scattered in the wind, leaving barren hopelessness in its wake.
Because no one is coming. No one cares.
The house is quiet, everyone oblivious as they sleep soundly in their beds.
This is our little secret meant only for us.
His breaths grow harsher, his touch more insistent.
“My sweet, sweet girl. I’m going to take such good care of you.”
The world grows fainter; my mind retreats inward. It’s the only escape I have. My only hope for survival.
1
RILEY
There’s a crispness to the early September air as I step onto the Halston University campus and take in the grassy lawn crisscrossed by sidewalks. Students mill around everywhere, in small groups, alone, with their parents, chatting animatedly, frowning at the maps in their hands, or staring at the buildings in awe.
Lifting my gaze to the imposing Gothic buildings surrounding me—libraries, lecture halls, administrative offices—a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, a rare kernel of hope popping in my stomach.
It’s hard to believe I’m actually here.
