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Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.
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Contents
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
For Ryan
Chapter One: Stories
(Vanessa)
Having my back turned toward the empty parking lot as I lock up the dance studio is slightly unnerving. In the back of my mind, I know there’s nothing to fear, but I still turn the key quickly and spin around to face the approaching darkness.
I hold myself close to the door, waiting for the feeling to leave me. Several minutes pass before I realize it isn’t going away. I can either stand here all night, or start walking. Eventually, I take a step forward. As I walk away from the dance studio, I know I’m being silly. My brother, Zander, is constantly telling me that fear is a weakness. I know how to defend myself.
Defending myself isn’t the problem. Controlling myself is.
The walk to my grandma’s house, where Zander and I have been living for the past year, is a good five miles away. I was supposed to ask Grandma to pick me up when Zander said he couldn’t, but I thought some time alone sounded better. At least, at the time, it sounded like a good idea. Now, I’m not so sure that a fifteen-year-old girl walking home alone at night is smart at all. It only invites trouble, but probably not the kind you might think. The fading sun seems to retreat faster than normal. Within ten minutes, I’m left skulking along the streets of Albuquerque in the full black of night.
I know the way home, but in the darkness I feel the weight of my hunger bear down on me. I’m not the only one out on the streets, and that is potentially dangerous. Average looking people mill about on the sidewalks, but I keep my distance.
Eyes down, I walk. I’m only two blocks away from the cramped little neighborhood where Grandma has lived for twenty years. I am almost there when I lurch to a stop in front of a dank alley filled with scuffling noises and pain.
An all too familiar feeling rises in the center of my body. I try to take another step, to get away, but I can’t. A muffled scream sends another shot of wretched pain shooting through the air. It’s too much to resist.
Dance bag abandoned, tennis shoes slapping against asphalt, my body powers down the alley independent of rational thought. Fragile bones snap and the sting of a knife pierces my thigh. Delicious satisfaction rushes in as agony fills the damp alley. Everything else is forgotten.
“Hey!” someone yells out.
Suddenly, without warning, the space around me is empty. I stumble up to my feet in search of the three chollo gangsters who were just on top of me. They’re racing out of the alley, only one looking back with a terrified expression before darting around the corner.
Stunned, confused, I stand up covered in blood and bruises. My eyes flit around for an explanation, landing on a caramel-haired teenage boy with a cell phone in his hand. I think he tries to say something to me. I watch his lips move without comprehending. The only rational thought I have is that he’s holding my ballet bag. Then, I hear the word police slip past his lips. In a panic, I snatch my bag out of his hand and run.