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Hazel eyes rimmed red and swollen stare back from a face lined with jagged rivers of mascara down pale cheeks. Auburn curls hang in tangled knots around my shoulders, a snarled mess.

I look wrecked, but the cold in my stomach keeps me comforted as I grip the edge of the sink, the porcelain biting into my palms. I push away and reach for the hem of my shirt. It’s yanked up over my head and tossed onto the counter. I step into the tub and turn the knob until the scorching spray of water sears my skin.

I scrub like I can erase what they did. I ignore the slight smear of blood between my thighs. It barely registers that I fulfilled my fantasy of letting Van and Lachlan be my first. I keep my mind focused on the list of everything I need to do when I get out, because I am no longer letting people walk all over me. Sweet, delicate Everly with the kind, loving heart is dead. She is never coming back.

My skin is pink and raw by the time I step out. Naked, I stalk into my bedroom. My strides wide and purposeful all the way to my closet.

I hate everything inside.

Every article of clothing was chosen by or for Bron. To appease him. To make him look good in public. Clothes that were never too revealing, too loud, too crazy. Bland colors that washed me into the background.

No more.

The crack of the door slamming shut reverberates through the silence. It follows me down the hall to my old room. The one I had before my parents died. The one that used to hold my crib but is now filled with all the things I gave up when I lost myself.

I choose a white, lace dress with a peasant top and a loose, flowy skirt. The square neckline barely contains my breasts and the hem on the skirt is shorter than Jefferson will like, but it’s still modest. Still cute. I top it with white flats with tiny, white bows at the back of the heels before returning to my parents’ bedroom.

I never had any intention of moving into their room but being in there had smelled so much like them in the beginning. It was filled with all their things, and wrapping myself up in my mom’s shawls made me feel like she was there, holding me.

Over the years, the smell has gone, but the space still belongs to them, and it’s the only place I can sleep.

At Mom’s vanity, I blow dry and curl my hair. Bron hates curls. Said they make me look like I’m a stripper. Pin straight was the only suitable style for a woman. I spray the strands with extra-hold hairspray just to keep all those ringlets in place.

I swap my nude lipstick for a deep burgundy. Whorish, Bron would say, but I grin at my reflection as I set to work on the rest of my face.

Dressed and ready for the day, I move to the table next to the bed. My phone lies exactly where I left it still on the charger. I stare at the bit of dark plastic that led to the bottom of my life falling out. If I hadn’t forgotten it yesterday, I never would have come back and I never would have seen what I saw. I wouldn’t have let my intrusive thoughts win and gone to find Van and Lachlan.

I let the thought go before I spiral again. I don’t have time for self-pity anymore. There is a progression of tasks that need me to keep myself together.

But first order of business...

I pluck up the phone and find Bron’s number. I do take note of the fact that our last message was from me yesterday morning telling him I was heading to work and that I would call him on my break. There isn’t a single response from him. Not even when I never made that call on my break. Not even lateryesterday evening when I should have been home. Just flipping up through our messages, the majority of them are from me begging for his time, begging for a response.

I scoff, disgusted with myself.

Lauren, on the other hand, has sent me no less than fifty messages and three missed calls. They range from:Hey, you busy?To,where are you? I need to talk to you.

It does dawn on me that I could tell them both that I know. That I saw what they did. But why make this easy for him? For them?

All I’ve done is make things easy for everyone. Been the good girl desperate to be accepted and loved.

Not this time.

Tossing my phone down on the bed, I yank open the nightstand, drag out the pen, and pad Mom kept inside. Perching on the edge of the bed, I set to work putting my list to paper. I have always been an immaculate note taker and I put it all to the test drawing out the next two weeks — starting with my first phone call of the day to Martin’s Tackle & Bait.

An hour later, I’m holding the door open for Martin Parker.

The sixty-year-old grandfather of six stands on my porch with his toolbox and stained overalls. His thick, gray mustache twitches under the twinkling blue of his eyes. Deep folds curl around his mouth.

“Good morning, Miss Cavanaugh. I wasn’t sure you were home. Your car is usually in the driveway.”

I return his smile but ignore his subtle prodding. “Good morning, Mr. Parker. Thank you for coming so early.”

He inclines his balding head. “Always happy to be the knight in shining armor for a damsel in distress.”

With a chuckle, I step back to let him over the threshold.

He doesn’t go far. He pauses at the door and eyeballs the brass knob with the latch that has been part of the house since my grandparents owned the property.