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“Why?” I ask haughtily.

I don't see Annie's hand until it stings me on the cheek. It's not a hard hit, but being struck is a brand new experience. Clasping my face, I gape at her. “He told you tocome with us,” she states, emphasizing each word, daring me to give her more attitude.

My muscles knot up as blood flows to my cheek. The skin she slapped thrums; I debate hitting her back, because I don't know how else to react. I'm raging. I'm embarrassed. She actuallyhitme?

Silas hasn't moved. He's an observer. I glance from him to Annie, grasping that she's performing for him. I don't want to see what her next trick is if I disobey again. Straightening up, I nod my head. “Fine. Lead the way.”

They stride back towards the house. I keep my distance as I follow. My mind is racing with a hundred ways to get back at Annie. I don't care if she attacked me to prove something to Silas, or if she did it because he told her to. I can't find any reason to accept her actions.

My parents have never been violent. Kara and I wrestled, we had spats, but we never hit each other. It was never needed—it didn't occur to me that a motherwouldslap a kid, especially in the face. I'm reminded that I'm not in control here, that I don't know the Bradleys in any sense of the word.

I have to be wary.

It's the only way I'll survive.

When we round a hallway that leads to the sunroom, I freeze. Through the tinted glass I can see someone sitting. Waiting.

It's my dad.

His head comes up, allowing him a second to prepare for the impact of my hug. “Daddy!” I cry, calling him something I haven't since I was small.

He squeezes me so roughly my spine cracks. I try to do the same to him, but I can't and that's fine. Everything is fine, now.

“Oh, Lolly,” he whispers. “How I missed you.”

I'm crying, oblivious to Annie and Silas. I look into his face and laugh. “Where's Kara, and Mom, and baby Dean? Are they here to pick me up, too?”

His smile vanishes. “No.”

Paranoia tugs at my heart. “But youaretaking me home.”

He looks beyond me at Annie and Silas. “Can I talk to her alone?”

“By all means,” Silas says, ushering his wife down the hall.

My dad stays quiet until they're out of view. “I'm not here to take you home. Not yet.”

“I don't understand.” Disappointment cools my heart. I pull away, ending the hug. “Then why are you here?”

He runs his fingers through his hair. It's only been a month since I saw him—why does he seem a decade older? “Silas is rewarding me for my recent work.”

Deflating onto the wicker chair, I scowl. “Oh.”

“I'm sorry. But isn't this nice, still?”

Folding my arms, I shut my eyes. “Yes,” I admit. “I only thought... I guess I was sure, for a minute, that this was all over with.”

The wicker squeaks. He clasps my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. “I'm sure it will be soon.”

I believe him because I'm still innocent.

“Soon” turns into a whole year. I spend it enduring the strict home-school teacher they hire for me. When I can dodge her, I explore the estate, running over the tidy grass even as the landscapers shake their fists.

I cling to the word “soon” like it's my last speck of food and I'm starving. I keep faith, and each time it fades, I see my father again and feel it renewed. It goes on like that; him visiting twice a month, me mollified by his presence thatsoonis coming.

On my eighteenth birthday, I've almost stopped believing.

That day, as we sit in the sunroom sharing a single piece of cake between us, a soldier guarding the door out of earshot, my father leans in to kiss my cheek. The kiss is really a whisper. “The next time I visit, I'm taking you home.”