Casters Series Box Set

By Norah Wilson

This digital box set contains three full length novels, specifically, Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Casters Series.

Comes the Night – How far would you go to escape your own personal teenage hell? Would you run away, break away from everything you know—even your own body?

Alex Robbins, Brooke Saunders and Maryanne Hemlock could not be more different, yet they all have something in common—deep and soul-searing pain. They are also all students at Streep Academy, a boarding school just one step away from juvie, where they've come to complete high school. The three have been relegated to Harvell House, the residence reserved for the hardest cases, the so-called Rejects from Reject Row.

In the forbidden attic of the old Victorian house-turned-residence, the girls discover the diary of Connie Harvell, a young woman who was confined and abused there some 50 years ago. In the end, Connie’s attic prison couldn't hold her—not completely. She found a way out. At least a dark part of her did. And after reading her diary, the girls discover they can escape at will too. A terrifying, thrilling flight from their bodies and their troubles.

But God help them, their pain isn't all they leave behind when they join with the night.

And God help anyone who’s wronged them...

Enter the Night – In Comes the Night, Alex Robbins, Brooke Saunders and Maryanne Hemlock, three troubled seniors at Streep Academy, learned to escape their pain — escape their very bodies — by casting a dark piece of themselves out through the stained glass window high in the attic of their dorm, Harvell House.

Casting has been the salvation of each of the girls, but particularly for Maryanne. The wholesome good girl of the trio, Maryanne nevertheless harbors a secret — and a darkness — unrivaled by tattooed scenester Alex or beautiful badass Brooke. Casting provides Maryanne a desperately needed reprieve from her guilt and pain, but it’s become like a drug. And as with any drug, it only masks the real problems ... and brings dangers of its own.

When Maryanne starts dating Bryce Walker, son of the notorious “Heller” hunter Ira Walker, is it first love, or is there a darker, more self-destructive impulse at play? As the superstitious citizens of Mansbridge begin to mutter and scan the night skies for Hellers, can the hunted lie down with the hunter and emerge unscathed?

Embrace the Night - Thanks to Brooke, she, Maryanne and Alex are trapped even deeper in the Caster world, and inside their dark selves. Racing the clock, they must find a way back before they find themselves stranded in the very night they sought to claim.

But even as they search for a solution, the Heller stories are growing, giving rise to panic among the superstitious citizens of Mansbridge. Armed with fury, fire and iron, the hunters are looking to “send the Hellers back to hell.” And this time, it’s more than just the usual handful of vocal Heller haters. It’s a mob.

But the Casters have a righteous fury of their own. God help anyone who dares harm one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norah Wilson
• Release date: Jul 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781927651124

Norah Wilson

Norah Wilson is the author of romantic suspense novels Guarding Suzannah, Protecting Paige,and Saving Grace. She is a three-time finalist in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart contest and won Dorchester Publishing’s New Voice in Romance award. Under the pseudonym Wilson Doherty, she and her writing partner, Heather Doherty, write young adult paranormal fiction. A native Canadian, Wilson lives in Fredericton, New Brunswick, with her family.

Book preview

Comes the Night

Book 1 in the Casters Series

img2.jpg

by

Norah Wilson and Heather Doherty

Comes the Night

Copyright © 2012 Norah Wilson and Heather Doherty

Cover by Phat Puppy Art

Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

Prologue

From the Diary of Connie Harvell

October 11, 1962

Dear Diary,

I went out again tonight.

I just had to! There was no room for anything in me beyond the need to escape. As soon as my legs would hold me, I got off that cot and crossed my attic prison to the stained glass window. I looked at the Madonna trapped there in the colored glass. Her image was dull in the night, yet—in its own way—alive with the moonlight shining through. I saw her eyes clearly. And it really felt like she saw mine too—saw my horror.

Yes, this gentle lady knows my suffering. She’s silent yet offering. And it’s terrifying, what she offers!

I will not be damned for what I must do. I. Will. Not!

I touched the cold glass, Dear Diary. I laid my hands on it and looked up into those blue eyes. I smiled, despite the nightmare of this room. I smiled as I prepared to say the words that would set me free, if only for these darkened hours.

Because out there... out there I’m free from the locks, the bindings. The pain. Even my lonely isolation. Out there I join with the night. And it joins with me!

I spoke the words. I whispered them as I tapped on the window. Then, once again, I was one with the dark night.

It was terrifying... And yes—it was wonderful.

Chapter 1

The Bleeding Rose

Alex

Present day

It was the cold that woke her.

Eyes still glued shut with sleep, Alex Robbins threw her arm wide, fumbling for the covers she must have thrown off in the night. Except her knuckles came in stinging contact with a hard surface instead of a soft mattress.

What the hell? Her eyes flew open.

The ceiling above was unfamiliar, but from the way it slanted so sharply, with raw, exposed beams, it had to be an attic.

She was in an attic!

She jackknifed up, then wished she hadn’t as sharp, stinging pain arrowed up from between her legs. Gasping, she leaned to the right, shifting her weight onto her hip to alleviate the discomfort. Oh, God, her naked hip! Her shirt hung open, buttons missing, and she wore nothing from the waist down.

Her heart pounded, and a wave of nausea rolled over her as she struggled to process the obvious.

Who had done this to her?

The memory was like a hammer, just outside her awareness. Relentlessly pounding. Forcefully driving at the walls of her mind in an attempt to break through the barrier. She pressed her fists to her forehead for long moments, straining for the memory. But it wouldn’t come. Oh God, it wouldn’t come! But something had happened! And that terrified her, like nothing had ever terrified her before.

She turned her frantic attention back to the room. Definitely an attic, but where? Everything was dusty and gray and still, as if stopped in time. The dark rafters above her rose to a peaked roof. The lighting was low, only the smallest amount of diffused sunlight filtered into the room.

Sunlight—there had to be a window.

Alex cringed at the pain low in her belly as she turned. Beside her lay a musty, dirt-streaked overcoat and she pulled it up around her, covering her nakedness. A low window was directly behind her and she only had to scoot back a few feet to look outside. The top two-thirds of the window shone with a multitude of bright colors, but she didn’t even look at the pattern in the stained glass. She just raised herself up enough to peer through the clear glass at the bottom.

It was barely morning. Probably just past six, judging from the rising sun. Alex was looking out on a river—the Saint John River. She recognized this stretch of it. At least she was still in Mansbridge. And as she studied more of her surroundings through the window—the buildings around the bend in the river, a transport truck rumbling down the road on the other side of the Saint John—she knew where she was.

I’m still in Harvell House! she whispered. There was little comfort in that.

Alex had come back to school early; the other students wouldn’t be arriving for two more days. She’d had little choice in the pre-Labor Day arrival. Her parents had had enough of her, and she’d certainly had enough of them. Two phone calls and it was arranged, Harvell House would take her early. Reject Row the town called it. Harvell House was the residence where the loneliest went, the oddest ones, and of course, as in Alex’s case, the very worst of the bad apples who attended the Streep Academy.

She turned her attention back to the room. As her eyes adjusted to the low lighting, she could make out more detail. A mattressless crib, its sides high and slats wide apart, stood in one corner, flanked by two dressers and an old rocking chair. Alex’s stomach clenched as she saw the wide cot, the one tatter of thick rope knotted onto the metal frame.

But no, it hadn’t happened there.

She pulled the dirty coat tighter around her. Whoever had done this to her—whoever had raped her—hadn’t done it there on the cot, but here on the floor. Here where she sat now. She couldn’t remember it happening, but with stomach-churning sickness and body-burning anger, she knew the truth of it.

And it had to have been rape. Her sexual experience was a whole lot thinner than most people probably thought, but she knew enough to know consensual sex didn’t leave you feeling like this.

The memory hammered—again and again. Closer.

Under the meager covering of the coat, Alex brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The action caused the coat to gape at the top. She looked down at herself, at her beloved tattoo just above her right breast—a bleeding red rose. She’d gotten it back home in Halifax during the summer in celebration of her 17th birthday. They’d all gotten one—Alex and Anika and Chelsea. Anika had dared a small musical note on her ankle. Chelsea a wide, blue tramp stamp on her lower back. But Alex had been drawn to the bleeding red rose displayed on the tattoo shop’s wall. She’d gotten that. Gone back once more over the summer to have the job completed.

And now, at the sight of the bruise from unknown hands continuing to form around that bleeding flower, she curled up into a ball on the floor let the tough-girl tears flow.

How had this happened? She’d been back in Mansbridge twenty-four hours. Last night had been her first night at Harvell House. Who could have done this to her? Who would have dared? Who even knew she was back?

How did she get here?

Come on, girl, remember!

But that was just it. She couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried.

Had she been roofied?

The caretaker—John Smith—had signed her in to Harvell. Quiet, harmless-looking old geezer. As always, he’d barely made eye contact with her. The housemother, Mrs. Betts, had been summoned. Tired, apathetic, annoyed to be woken at two in the afternoon, she’d shown Alex to the second-floor room she’d be sharing in September with two girls, one of whom she’d never even heard of, and the other she knew to be a total B. She fully intended to bunk with Leah and Kassidy again this year, but she would save that news for when her posse could back her up. So instead of arguing about it, Alex had lain down on the bed. She’d read for a bit, had a short nap, cracked open her flask and... Her flask! Was that it? Had someone on the bus ride slipped something into her bottle? Unlikely. She’d had it in her carry-on and had used that as a pillow most of the way. She’d changed buses in Moncton, but the bag hadn’t been out of her sight. Not for a minute.

She just couldn’t remember. And if she couldn’t remember, how could she tell anyone? Especially with her reputation in Mansbridge. She’d had almost as many run-ins with the local law here as she’d had with the Halifax Regional Police. And the force was so much smaller here. Every one of them knew her. Or thought they did.

She’d get up. Of course she would. She’d fight this feeling of brokenness. She’d get up and wrap the coat around her and make her way back to her room, and get showered and dressed. But she was going to stop crying first. Get a hold of herself.

Starting by getting out of this stupid fetal position. She wasn’t a baby.

She rolled onto her back. Through tear-filled eyes she glared up at the rafters steepling above her, silent witness to her—There was something there. She wiped at her eyes to get a better look. Papers?

No not papers, exactly—a yellow-edged book, way up on the rafters, tucked in what looked to be a rough-carved place in the wooden beam. She wouldn’t have even noticed it had she not been lying flat on the floor.

Alex got to her feet and pulled the coat around her. The musty, sickening smell of the coat’s fabric filled her nostrils, but she pushed her nausea aside and crossed the floor to look up at the rafter. How could she reach it?

She scanned the room. The rocking chair! It wouldn’t boost her high enough to reach the hidden book, but if she used it to get up on the dresser... No sooner had she formed the thought than she was moving the heavy dresser, lifting each side by turns and inching it quietly to the center of the room.

Alex climbed. As much as her world felt like it was falling apart, she was pulled to the tiny book, like the distraction of discovering its contents would somehow be enough to help her survive this awful moment. She stood on top of the dresser, balanced on her bare feet and reached. With careful, digging fingers she pulled the book from its wooden nest and held it close to her as she climbed down to the floor again.

She flipped through the pages as she stood there, reading a bit here and there of the shaking handwriting on the yellowed paper. Omigod, a diary.

She flipped to the front page and read the name there. Connie Edwina Harvell. She closed the book and her fingers touched the tiniest rose, drawn on one lower corner of the cover.

Alex tucked the diary securely into the top of the tightly-belted coat and eased the dresser back into place. Then, with practiced stealth, she made her way soundlessly back down to her room.

She showered, standing under the stinging hot spray until the water ran cold. She dressed. She cried again and pounded her pillow. She fought and fought with the memory and the memory fought with her.

And then, as she sat tight in a corner, Alex Robbins began reading the yellowed pages of Connie’s diary.

Chapter 2

Tabula Rasa

Maryanne

Maryanne Hemlock had been in more awkward situations than this over the course of her seventeen years. But darned if she could think of one of those situations right now as she sat on the edge of her bed in her assigned room at Harvell House. Her gaze traveled between her two roommates—Alex Robbins and Brooke Saunders. Their single beds, identical to Maryanne’s, snugged up against two of the other walls of the perfectly square, perfectly plain, high-ceilinged room.

Eyes shifted.

It was like some kind of Mexican standoff, without the guns.

What the heck was she doing here?

No sooner did the thought form than the answer came. Along with the sad resolve. Because she had to be here.

Jason.

She still missed him. Still grieved her baby brother’s death as if it were yesterday. Twelve months and twelve days, that had been his whole life. She didn’t grieve him with the same anguished desperation as her mother did. Nor with the same stoic heartache as her father. But she missed him and mourned him in her own way.

Like no one would ever—could ever!—know.

It wasn’t that Jason had been the adored sibling. No more and no less the center of her parents’ world than she had been. They’d both been cherished, and known it. She’d been their first born child; he’d been their ‘miracle’ baby. The pleasant surprise. And he’d fit.

Jason had fit perfectly into their little family. Made it all the cozier.

She supposed that they had been an extraordinarily close-knit family. Skip Hemlock, her slightly eccentric father, had been a content stay-at-home dad who made the most amazing lasagna and was famous in their little subdivision for his pecan pie, which was Maryanne’s favorite. He’d made Jason’s baby food himself, and kept it all organic. Maryanne’s mother, Kelly Webb-Hemlock, was the CEO of a very successful Toronto IT security firm, but she had never missed a single one of Maryanne’s Christmas concerts, piano lessons or swim meets. She’d aahed and oohed over every one of Jason’s first words, marveled at his smile. So had Maryanne.

But then on that nightmare night just last May, Jason’s life had ended.

And the guilt crushed her still.

It’s not like her little brother had been the glue that had held the family together. But nevertheless without him, they’d come undone. And rightly or wrongly, she’d had to get away. Away from her parents whose marriage was crumbling right before her eyes. Away from all the sympathetic souls who told Maryanne how sorry they were for her loss, how much Jason had adored her, and worst of all—what a very good big sister she’d been.

A few Google searches later and she’d had the answer: Streep Academy in Mansbridge, New Brunswick.

I wasn’t like Streep was her only choice. Her marks had been good enough to get her into any private school in the country, and her parents could afford to send her. But this little school in this small town had seemed just right. Just far enough away from her Burlington, Ontario home. Neither of her parents protested. In fact, her mother cut the tuition check the very day Maryanne broached the idea. She’d opened up a generous line of credit for her remaining child with the instructions, Don’t go without. And four weeks later, her father hugged her goodbye at the airport.

Short hours after that tremulous hug, she’d stood before Harvell house—the only dorm left in town that had a vacancy—and smiled. Awesome!

Yeah, it’s pretty grand, the taxi driver agreed, placing her bags on the sidewalk. Can’t imagine why Mr. Stanley doesn’t sell it. He could get a good price for it.

She passed him a tip and took the handle of her suitcase. I’m glad he hasn’t.

The Academy’s website had boasted this as one of the oldest homes in a town bursting with old homes. Apparently, it was owned by a Mr. C. W. Stanley, an oil man from Alberta who had visited Mansbridge years ago, fell in love with the little town, and spent a ton of money to modernize the property.

About a decade ago, he’d donated use of the house to Streep Academy. But even from the low-res pictures on the Streep website, Maryanne knew Harvell was the place for her. She’d always ‘felt’ places, their vibes, though that particular quirk was something she kept to herself, ever since Angela Carlin had called her a weirdo back in Grade 3 when she’d described the school’s small gym as angry.

But it wouldn’t take someone with Maryanne’s sensitivity to feel the lonesomeness that permeated the huge, old house. It practically breathed out through the clapboards. Disquiet stared from every window of Harvell House, even the smallest ones.

Oh wow, especially the smallest ones.

Maryanne looked around quickly to see if anyone had seen her talking to herself. Not exactly the first impression she wanted to make. But only the cab driver was there to hear her. He smiled and got back into his vehicle.

As the taxi pulled away, Maryanne climbed the steps and walked into the enormous old house, knowing she’d made the right choice. She’d breathe here a little while, while her parents survived, marriage intact or not, back in Burlington. She’d grieve here. Work through the feelings as best she could. And what was left, she would shove in a box in the corner of her mind so she could go on. Then she’d head home in the summer and prepare for university.

That was the plan.

Someone cleared their throat, dragging Maryanne away from her drifting thoughts and back to the present. Right. She was supposed to be getting to know these two. After all, these were her roommates for the next ten months. They seemed an unlikely trio.

Alex was clearly a scene kid. Skinny-legged jeans, slip on Vans, tight band t-shirt. Two lip rings on her bottom lip, one on either side, and the requisite black hair skimming her shoulders at the back, but bangs cut jaggedly short at the front. The only thing missing was the heavy eyeliner. Maryanne could all too easily imagine those gray-blue eyes darkly outlined in that delicate, heart-shaped face. But even without dramatic makeup, Alex’s eyes were very pretty, if a little sad.

Brooke’s looks, on the other hand, were a sharp contrast with Alex’s. Not that Maryanne was vying for the title of fashion czar, since comfy jeans and a loose-fitting sweater was her fall fashion statement. But Brooke was clearly going for something altogether different. She was definitely high-end. Long brunette hair, parted in the middle, and doubtlessly enhanced by a salon versus Alex’s home dye job. Perfect oval of a face. Dark, impeccably groomed eyebrows and a slightly olive-tinted complexion that probably never broke out and required nothing more than a moisturizer. Even her clothes looked expensive. Maryanne didn’t know one designer from another, but even she could see the difference $300 made to a pair of jeans. Top it with a nice shirt and a tailored leather jacket and Brooke Saunders looked like sheer confidence on a pair of spike-heeled shoes. What was she doing in Harvell House? Maryanne would lay money that she was a late enrollment, too. Too late for one of the better dorms.

Soooo, Maryanne edged out. Someone had to break the ice. It would be a pretty damn long year otherwise. You guys come here often?

Not a chuckle. But at least it started a conversation.

This is my second year, Brooke said.

At Harvell or Streep? Maryanne wondered. Do you like it here?

At Harvell or Streep?

The echo of her own question rattled Maryanne for a moment. Brooke actually chose to come back to Harvell? She shrugged. Both.

Brooke sighed. Quiet town. Small school. Boring house.

Alex snorted.

Okay, Brooke amended. "Nothing much happens in my world around here. With a purposeful and sly smile, she looked over at Alex. But that’s just me. I guess I hang with the boring crowd. You know, the ones on this side of the law."

Maryanne waited for Alex to reply, but she didn’t. In fact, her raven-haired roommate suddenly seemed to be barely registering the conversation. She seemed... lost. Not for words; Maryanne had the feeling Alex Robbins wouldn’t be too shy about tearing a strip off of anyone, if the situation demanded. But right now, she seemed lost in some interior maze of thought. Without knowing exactly why, Maryanne felt a pang of compassion for the girl.

I’m from New York, Brooke offered.

Maryanne swung her gaze back to Brooke. What brings you to Mansbridge?

She shrugged. Same reason most of the girls are here. Things went wrong at home. Or home didn’t fit anymore. It was a boundaries thing. Take your pick. For me, that translates into my mother remarried.

You don’t like the guy? Maryanne asked.

He’s a freakin’ Nazi, Brooke pulled a nail file out of her purse. Or pride of the NYPD computer crime division, depending on how you look at it.

Your mom must like him.

Brooke snorted. My mother—she’s a district attorney—met him three years ago when she was prosecuting some corporate weasel who was hacking into competitors’ systems, then undercutting everyone on industry bids.

Bad stuff.

Brooke waved a hand dismissively. Anyway, boy meets girl, boy marries girl, boy starts trying to set curfews and acts like a total authoritarian dipstick. The upshot—darling daughter gets sent away to boarding school.

Ouch. Guess $300 jeans didn’t fix everything. Why Streep?

To piss my mother off. Brooke smiled as she said it. Streep was my idea.

Maryanne nodded. You must find it a real... culture shock, being in such a small town.

I get by. And it’s almost over. Last year. Brooke turned to the other girl. Your last year too, huh, Alex?

Alex stared at her for a moment, as if hitting an internal rewind button to trace back the conversation. Yeah, one more year.

What brings you to Harvell House? It was Brooke’s turn to ask the questions, and she was pointing them at Maryanne.

Under Brooke’s sharp gaze, Maryanne fought to control the sudden pounding of her heart in the long and empty pause. She couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

She smiled, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. You know, just needed a change of pace.

Brooke smirked, Which translates into... ?

Just that. Change of pace. Maryanne stood and walked to the window overlooking the Saint John River. Traffic was picking up. School would be starting tomorrow. Not just Streep, but the nearby community college, high school and grade schools. God, but it was a pretty town. Picture-book pretty, with the cozy little shops lining the streets, the trail along the river, the sidewalks and crosswalks. She had to smile as she saw a black cat scoot out to the crosswalk. Every car came to a stop for the feline and the drivers seemed to wait each other out after it passed. Just who was going to go first to cross the black cat’s path?

I think I’ll go for a walk tonight, Maryanne announced. Explore a little.

Don’t!

Maryanne startled at Alex’s near shout. Their eyes met.

Alex ran a hand over her hair. Things... things aren’t always as safe as they seem around here.

Someone’s hurt her. Maryanne knew it instantly. She didn’t know who nor why nor how, but she knew that someone had hurt this girl to make her so on edge. So cautious and quiet.

Well, aren’t you the little den mother all of a sudden, Brooke said.

Alex sent her a quelling look. She’s new here, Brooke. She doesn’t know her way around town yet. And you don’t... you don’t know who’s around.

There was a knock at the door. Maryanne saw Alex stiffen, her eyes growing wide.

Come in, Brooke called, and the door swung open.

It was the caretaker, the one who’d carried Maryanne’s bag up to this second floor room when she’d arrived. He didn’t glance up at any of them, but instead looked down at the floor like a meek boy rather than the man of sixty-some years he had to be. Mrs. Betts needs to see you all, he said. In the main parlor. Right away.

Problem? Maryanne asked.

Nah, she just likes to lay down the house rules, Brooke answered for John Smith, and the man backed gratefully away from the door. "Study hard. Be good. No drinking. No boys. Bet you can’t wait to break them all again this year, huh Alex?"

The look Alex returned was ice cold. It’s a new year, Brooke.

Yeah, but same old Alex. You’ll be on probation within a week.

Alex bit her lip, the lower one with the double piercing. People change.

Not so much, in my experience. On that note, Brooke stood. She tucked her purse under her arm and headed toward the door. Stopping with her hand on the doorknob, she turned to Maryanne. Coming?

I’ll be right along.

Suit yourself.

Alex stood. She drifted over to the window and stood gazing out of it, hands tucked deep in her jeans pockets.

What was it with this girl? What was her sad story?

Hey, Maryanne said. At the meeting downstairs... mind if I sit with you?

There was a worry in Alex’s eyes as she contemplated the idea. Whatever, she finally said, and stalked out into the hallway.

Chapter 3

The World That Tightens Around

Alex

Alex flopped into the first empty seat she came to. Not because it was the most comfortable one left in the old parlor. It wasn’t. If anything, the old, narrow-bottomed, straight-backed dining chair looked as if it could be transformed into a fairly efficient torture device with very little effort. Or very little imagination. But Alex claimed it because it was the closest one to the door. And she wasn’t sure she could catch her breath if she went further into the room.

The panicky feeling she’d woken with in that damned attic was still with her. Instead of fading over the intervening days, it seemed to have burrowed down inside, surfacing at odd intervals. It was making itself known in this crowded room. This crowded room with only one exit.

From across the room, Alex saw Leah give a head jerk over here gesture. Beside Leah, Kassidy scowled off a freshman who was about to claim the empty seat between them. They were obviously holding it for Alex. But with her left foot flat on the floor, and her right jacked up on the bottom rung for emphasis—Alex stayed put in the chair by the door.

A second later, Maryanne sat down in the equally narrow-bottomed, straight-backed piece of crap beside her. Alex shot her a quick look. Maryanne flashed her a smile, then turned away to scan the faces of the assembled students.

Huh. After Alex’s less than warm reception of Maryanne’s suggestion that they sit together, she really hadn’t expected the other girl to park it next to her. Especially when there were more comfy chairs further inside.

Alex shrugged. Whatever. If Maryanne wanted to sit in that torture device, so be it.

The room filled up quickly. Alex glanced around the large parlor, then stared out the door into the hallway. She’d leave. If it got to be too much, she’d just walk out. Already she could feel the closeness of the room pressing in around her. Felt the first trickles of warmth, then the tightness in her chest. It hadn’t been like this before. It shouldn’t be like this. But everything felt entrapping now. Threatening. Like she was suffocating within her own skin.

While she battled that feeling of suffocation, Patricia Betts came up behind her and laid a hand on Alex’s shoulder. Alex jumped in her seat and swore.

Those who dared, and those who’d never met Alex Robbins, snickered.

Good heavens, I didn’t mean to startle you. Mrs. Betts thrust a handful of colorful pages out toward her. Hand these out for me please, Alex.

Alex didn’t budge as the seconds ticked by. Not in defiance, but because the room suddenly did feel that close. She felt her knees tremble.

I’ll do it, Mrs. Betts. I need to stretch my legs.

Maryanne was on her feet with papers in hand before Betts had time to utter a protest. But in true Patricia Betts fashion, she just rolled her eyes, sighed and let it go as she took her place at the front of the room behind the podium, an old scarred-up music stand that was almost guaranteed to get knocked over before the meeting was done. Betts took a pair of reading glasses from a case and perched them on her nose. She looked down at the pages before her—the same ones Maryanne was handing out—as if she’d bothered to add anything different from all the previous years. As if she’d actually take the time to—He’s looking at me.

Alex knew John Smith’s eyes were on her even before she looked his way. Her darting eyes were quick enough to catch the caretaker staring. Quickly he lowered his glance. He almost seemed to lower his head.

Was it him? The old dude who always looked so harmless?

Smith could have slipped into her room while she was in the bathroom and put something in her flask. He knew Alex was back at Harvell House. He could access the attic. Maybe he only seemed harmless. Maybe it was all an act. Maybe he’d been stalking her for years. Watching her. Waiting until he could—Alex shook her head. Fought down the breaths that she just now realized were coming far too fast. She was driving herself crazy. But dammit, who wouldn’t be driven out of their mind if they’d been drugged and raped and left to wake half-naked and confused in a dingy old attic? Left there like a used tissue or some bit of garbage they were finished with.

The only thing worse than that, was not knowing who’d done it.

Alex bristled as Maryanne sat down again beside her, passing her the last of the handouts.

Now, we’ll start with the yellow sheet, Mrs. Betts said. The yellow sheets were two sheets down in the small packets of colorful pages, which made no sense to anyone. The rustle of turning pages filled the room. Alex glanced down.

Oh God, the yellow sheet. Introductions.

Before Mrs. Betts even announced his name, the school’s benefactor C. W. Stanley rose from his chair beside the podium. He bowed like a Southern gentleman in an old Civil War movie, removing his hat as if he were being introduced to a room full of genteel ladies rather than the collection of cast-offs and hard cases most of them were. C. W. slicked a hand back over his yellow-white hair. My, my, he said, smiling around the room. I don’t think I’ve ever been in the company of such fine young ladies.

What an ass. And unfortunately a long-winded one.

We are joined here once again at the beginning of another school year in this majestic home, C. W. began, leaning back as he pontificated. It’s a house full of history. Harvell House is one of Mansbridge’s oldest homes. When I first came to this fine town, I marveled at the place. I would walk along the sidewalks, look up at this grand structure and vow I would own it. And here, as he always did, C. W. raised an arm for dramatic emphasis. And now, by the grace of God, Harvell House is mine, and I am so pleased to open it up to all of you promising young ladies.

Kassidy snorted and some of the other girls tittered, but it was lost on Alex. She was too busy trying to imagine C. W. in the role of her attacker.

Could it have been him?

He was known for lurking around the house, although she’d never heard of him entering a room without knocking. And quite a few of the girls said he sometimes looked at them in a leering, old-man way. Kassidy herself, just last year, had sworn she saw him peeking through the curtains one night after lights out. But Kassidy always said men were looking at her. Once when they’d snuck into the local tavern with fake IDs, Kassidy had insisted that every guy in the place waved to her at least once over the course of the night. Alex and Leah had just about peed themselves laughing, knowing Kassidy’s ‘admirers’ were just signaling for another round of draft.

On the other hand, Harvell House belonged to C. W., and he clearly took pride in its history. Why wouldn’t he check in on the place?

But had he raped her?

She studied him with narrowed eyes. Man, he looked as if he could barely get himself up the stairs, let alone manage it while burdened with Alex’s weight. Because she must have been unconscious, to have no memory whatever of the event or even of preceding events.

Alex felt tears sting the back of her eyes. Was this the way it would always be? Would she be looking for the bastard who’d done this in the eyes of every man she encountered for the rest of her life?

All of a sudden, Alex felt something else. Maryanne’s elbow in her ribs.

What the—

I’m Maryanne Hemlock, Maryanne announced. From Burlington, Ontario. This is my first year attending Streep Academy. And so, of course, it’s my first year at Harvell.

Okay, she got it. Alex was next. She drew a shaky breath.

Burlington. That’s near Toronto, isn’t it, Miss Hemlock? C. W. asked. He always tried way too hard with the new girls.

Yes, sir.

I hope you’ll enjoy life at Harvell House.

I’m sure I will, Mr. Stanley.

Tell us a little about yourself. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

Even as distracted as Alex was, she felt Maryanne go tense beside her.

No, Maryanne said, her voice flatter than before. No. I’m an only child.

Maryanne lowered her head, as if all of a sudden something was terribly interesting in the tiny ring she twisted now around her finger. Alex glimpsed the stone—Apache tear—she was almost sure. Anika had been into stones the summer before last in Halifax. She’d spent a small fortune on them at a little store on Barrington Street that specialized in things like that.

It was Alex’s turn. Short and sweet. To the point. That’s how she’d get through this.

I’m Alex Saunders. Last year. Going to... going to see what I can make of it.

Party time! Leah shouted.

No! The automatic denial was out before Alex could even think about it. Dammit, she should have just let it slide. After all, that was the Alex everyone knew. That’s how she’d ended up at Streep in the first place three years ago, a whole province away from her parents and little sister back in Nova Scotia. Her parents just couldn’t handle her. The drinking, the fights, the staying out all hours, the early run-ins with the law. She’d been kicked out of a handful of schools in Halifax, including two Catholic ones within the same month. Streep had been a way out for all of them. For Alex to get away from her parents, for her parents to get away from her. And for the sake of her impressionable little sister Eva, of course. Alex was well aware of that unspoken fact, too. The thought of her family and her friends back home suddenly made her want to cry. But she had to keep it together.

Say something, Robbins. I... that’s not what I meant.

Audibly, Leah pffted her disbelief, but it was Kassidy whose glare burned her from across the room. What is it with you, Alex? Kassidy demanded. What’s your problem?

All the other girls were looking at her now. Mrs. Betts, John Smith, C. W. Stanley—everyone’s eyes were on her. What did they know? Who were these new girls anyway? And what about the ones who’d known her before? Could they... oh, God, could they see it in her eyes? Could they look at her and know how close she was to screaming?

The torture chair went flying back against the wall and Alex found herself on her feet with all those eyes staring at her.

She bolted.

Mrs. Betts called after her, but Alex had to get out of there, now. Had to get some air.

She’d never felt so panicked—so scared—as she ran out of Harvell House. She had never in her life felt so alone as she jumped down the steps. And as she raced along the walkway, her fingers found and clutched the little diary in the pocket of her hoodie.

Chapter 4

The Bitch Is Back

Brooke

Brooke Saunders kicked her shoes off the moment she hit the bedroom. Sighing, she closed the door behind her and dropped her book bag. She’d cut out of History—her last class of the day—early, pleading a migraine. But she didn’t need Tylenol for a non-existent headache. She just needed a little alone time. God, it seemed like forever since she’d enjoyed just being by herself.

And not just since she came here, just over five weeks ago. Since... forever. Well, at least since her mother had married Herr Kommandant.

It used to be just Brooke and her mom, Gracie, ever since her dad split when she was seven. Not that her mom didn’t have the occasional boyfriend, but they came and they went and they never posed a serious threat. Not until her mother caught that stupid case that brought her in contact with stupid Kendall McLeod, Detective First-Grade with the NYPD. After that, after all the skirmishes over curfews and attitude and language and every last damned thing, she’d taken to staying out until all hours of the night. Which meant she had to tolerate the company of friends and would-be-friends and yeah, some downright creeps, just so she wouldn’t have to endure Herr Kommandant at home.

And she was not going to think about him now, or her mother or any of that stuff. She’d only get pissed off. And she had plenty enough to get pissed about already.

Of course, her mother had a few things to be pissed about too. Namely, the credit card bill from last month with the incriminating charges on it.

Brooke had come to town three days before school started—lying to her mother about the start date. But she hadn’t exactly been searching for solitude then. She’d checked into one of those odiously dated but affordably-priced cabins down by the river and invited Seth Walker to join her. She would have preferred the new Best Western, but she’d thought that if she kept the expenditure small enough, it wouldn’t come to her new stepfather’s attention back in New York. She should have known better.

Not that her mother would be overly shocked to learn she’d been sharing a motel room with a boy. Over this past summer, when Brooke started avoiding home for days at a time, her mother had handed her an appointment card for their family physician, instructing her to get herself on the pill and for God’s sake to please be careful and to always protect herself. With that vote of confidence, Brooke had promptly given up her virginity to the first sufficiently hot guy who’d cared enough to chase her—a French pre-med student she’d met after crashing a party. Of course, he’d stopped chasing as soon as she stopped running. And she’d stopped putting out.

But Seth, a native of Mansbridge, was different. The two of them had been hot and heavy last spring, before she’d had to go back home, but Brooke stupidly hadn’t wanted to take it any further than their make out sessions in Seth’s cramped Mustang. Instead, she’d gone home and wound up sleeping with a jerk she hadn’t given a crap about.

When she’d called, Seth had come running. All he’d had to hear was motel and he’d been there, panting after her. Except he hadn’t been too pleased about the fact that she’d come back unencumbered with her virginity. Not that he was so put off that he hadn’t availed himself of what she was offering. He’d availed himself plenty, for the whole three days, until she moved into Harvell House. And then he’d fallen off the face of the earth.

That’s right. He’d gone to ground. It had been five weeks now, and still she hadn’t heard from him. And this despite the messages she’d left on his parents’ voice mail. Worst of all, she’d sent a friend request to his stupid new Facebook page, and he was giving her the inbox rot. And she knew he was around. He’d changed his profile picture twice. Jerk. And duh—she’d seen him twice at the mall. And she was sure it was him at the wheel when his Mustang had rumbled past her last Thursday night. She’d been to the bar—thank you, fake ID—and had the cab driver drop her a few blocks from Harvell House so she could sneak back in. She’d taken off her shoe and thrown it after him, but her aim had fallen short.

Well, screw Seth Walker. When she caught up with him, she’d tear him a new one. In the meantime, she wasn’t wasting another second thinking about him. Especially when she had the place to herself.

She flopped down on her bed. It took some doing, but eventually she calmed herself down and emptied her mind of the Seth/Herr Kommandant/Mother noise. That’s when she heard it.

Silence.

Oh, man, that was good! She listened to it some more, sinking into it. Before long, though, she felt the tug of sleep. Felt it and sat right up. No way was she wasting quality alone time by sleeping. She could do that any time.

Besides, there was something she’d been meaning to do... She got up and crossed to Alex’s corner of the room. That girl was acting strange. To hear her, you’d think she’d turned totally straight-edge. The Alex Robbins Brooke knew from last year was seriously hardcore. Yet she’d kept up the act—if it was in fact an act—for almost six weeks now. Could it be for real? In Brooke’s experience, no one did that kind of one-eighty without a damned good reason. And Brooke was going to sleuth it out.

She started with the tried and true spots—under the mattress, under the bed, tucked under the socks in the dresser drawer—but they yielded nothing. Nor did the drawer of the night table by Alex’s bed or the pockets of her jackets hanging in the shared wardrobe. She was about to give up the search when her gaze fell on the narrow, single-shelf bookcase that doubled as a headboard for the twin bed. All the beds had them. Brooke thought it was the hokiest thing she’d ever seen, a misbegotten marriage of office furniture and bedroom furniture, but Maryanne loved hers, filling it with things she’d brought from home.

Geez, that girl was different, always talking to herself. And she didn’t swear. Ever. Wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouth full of it. God knew Brooke had done her best these past weeks to try to drag a cuss word out of her.

Brooke turned her attention back to the bookcase thingie at the head of Alex’s bed. Alex actually used hers for the purpose for which it was intended, to wit, stashing her textbooks. Except one of the books didn’t look like the others lined up there... She leaned in to examine the spine.

A diary! That’s abso-friggin’-lutely what it was!

Heart beating unaccountably fast, Brooke reached for the little tan-colored book. Damn, it was old. How long had Alex been keeping it? Since kindergarten?

She flipped the cover open, her gaze racing over the yellowed page. Within seconds she realized it wasn’t her roommate’s diary. It belonged to some chick named Connie. She turned the first page, then another and another.

Holy shit! Brooke sank down on Alex’s bed, completely engrossed. So engrossed that she failed to heed the sound of feet on the stairs and the creak of the floorboards right outside the door. The echo of those sounds only registered when the door flew open and Maryanne breezed into the room.

Breezed in and then froze.

"Brooke? What are you doing over there? And is that a diary? Her voice rose with accusation as she looked down at the handwritten pages. You’re reading Alex’s diary?"

It’s not Alex’s.

But you got it out of her things.

Brooke rolled her eyes. So sue me.

Have you been looking through my things, too? Is that why you skipped out early? To snoop?

Brooke felt her face flushing, but managed to give Maryanne a coolly derisive smile. Sweetie, I haven’t seen anything about you so far that’s remotely interesting enough to make me want to look through your things.

Something flashed in the other girl’s eyes, and Brooke almost regretted being such a bitch. Almost.

So my stuff is safe, but Alex’s is fair game? There was no mistaking the coldness in Maryanne’s voice. "Why’s that, Brooke? Because Alex is obviously sad? Hurt over something? Pain interests you?"

Brooke stood, huffing out an angry breath. Because she’s acting all straight-edge all of a sudden and I want to know why.

How about maybe she grew up a little over the summer?

Yeah, right. That must be why she went out and got that new snakebite, to prove how grown up she is now. And here I was thinking she’d done it just to be all scener-than-thou with the scene crowd.

The other girl’s face went blank. Snakebite?

Duh. The lip rings, one on either side. Looks kinda like a—

Snakebite, Maryanne finished.

I’m telling you, that girl is hardcore. I don’t know what this act is about, but don’t expect it to last for long. Alex Robbins is a party animal.

So it’s okay to read her diary?

"I told you, it’s not her diary! It’s way old. Belongs to some chick called Connie Harvell. I think she must have lived right here, at Harvell House. And omigod, you should read it! I just read a page or two, but—"

A thump interrupted them. Both girls looked up to see Alex standing in the open doorway. The thump they’d heard was her book bag hitting the floor.

That’s mine! An ashen-faced Alex flew across the room and tore the diary from Brooke’s unresisting hands. She stood there, chest heaving, looking every bit as badass as her reputation. "What the hell are you doing with it? With any of my stuff?"

Because she couldn’t resist, Brooke turned to Maryanne. "Yeah, what are we doing with Alex’s stuff?"

What the— Maryanne sputtered. "I wasn’t doing anything with her stuff and you know it!"

Brooke laughed. Just teasing. God, girl, you have to learn to chill or you’re going to be one big fat target, living in this house. Then she turned to Alex. So this is yours, huh?

Yes. Alex thrust out her chin, a clear giveaway.

"Funny, because it seems to belong to a girl named Connie Harvell, who used to live here decades ago. So I’m thinking, maybe you found it laying around the house somewhere. But a document like this—an artifact like this—I don’t think you can claim ownership. In fact, we should probably turn it in to Mrs. Betts."

At the mention of the housemother’s name, Alex paled further. No! You can’t do that. Connie... Connie wouldn’t have wanted that.

Brooke lifted an eyebrow. You seem to know Connie pretty well. Have you read it all the way through yet?

Alex’s lips thinned. Brooke took that as a yes.

Hey, maybe we could read it together, Maryanne suggested. From the beginning.

From the horrified expression on Alex’s face, you’d think Maryanne had suggested they slide a particularly nasty porno movie into the DVD player and pop some popcorn.

Losing patience, Brooke snapped, Face it, Alex, you gotta share. You can’t keep it to yourself any longer. ‘Finders, keepers’ doesn’t apply here.

Alex gripped the book tight to her chest. Are you kidding? You’ll just be all sarcastic like you always are. Connie Harvell had a tough life and a tougher death.

Tougher death? What the hell was in those pages?

I won’t have you mocking her. You hear me, Brooke? Alex continued. I swear to God, I’d rather give the diary to that judgmental old bat, Mrs. Betts.

Brooke felt her face slacken with shock and hurt. You think I’d really do that? I mean, I know I can be a bitch, but dude. Poke fun at a dead girl? She shook her head. Screw this. Scooping up her shoes, she stalked toward the door.

Wait!

Brooke stopped at Alex’s command, but didn’t turn. If she turned around now, they’d see the emotion she was blinking back.

Don’t tell Mrs. Betts.

Brooke paused long enough to suppress any hint of tears, then turned, arching a brow at Alex. I guess that’s your decision, isn’t it?

Alex’s face darkened. Dammit, Brooke, this is blackmail!

Blackmail? She lifted the other eyebrow and pretended to consider the accusation. "Lemme see... I threaten to reveal the existence of the diary—no, the historical artifact you found and force you to turn it over to Mrs. Betts unless you agree to let us read it, too. Brooke tilted her head. Gosh, I guess you’re right. That’s definitely blackmail."

Bitch!

Brooke smiled. Well, I guess that’s my cue. Turning, she headed for the door again.

Alex’s hand on her arm stopped her. Wait.

Brooke turned expectantly.

Okay, dammit! Alex exhaled and drew a deep breath. Okay, we can read it together. But if we’re going to do this, we’re going to read it where it was meant to be read.

Where’s that? Maryanne asked.

The attic.

Brooke and Maryanne looked toward the ceiling.

Trust me, there is an attic. I’ve been there. But we can’t go until after lights out, after everyone’s asleep. No one’s supposed to go up there.

There’s always been a lock on that door, Brooke said.

It’s broken. Probably been broken for ages and nobody’s bothered to try it.

Brooke felt her pulse quicken. Finally. A little excitement. Granted, it was more in keeping with a tweener sleepover involving a Ouija board than she’d like, but at this point, she’d take her thrills wherever she could get them.

Deal, she said. Now I’m gonna go get high before I have to read that stupid book they gave us in English class. She didn’t actually have any on her, but she knew where to get some in a hurry. Anyone care to join me?

Oh! Um... uh... no thanks, Maryanne said.

But it wasn’t Maryanne’s face Brooke was watching when she’d thrown that offer out. It was Alex’s. And the desire to say yes—or hell yeah, or I’m in!—might as well have been written on her forehead with a fat black marker. But she fought it down. The evidence of her turmoil was there in her tensed muscles, her tightly fisted hands. Then her fingers unclenched.

No, thanks, she muttered, looking away. Gotta hit the books.

Brooke smiled. Another time, maybe.

And as she turned to leave, she had the satisfaction of seeing Alex bite her snake-bitten lip.

Chapter 5

Ascending in the Night

Alex

Alex trembled inside as she climbed the steep stairs ahead of Maryanne and Brooke, but she moved quickly, decisively. No way would she let the other girls see the fear she bit back as she climbed up to the darkened attic. But that wasn’t the only reason she moved so quickly. Alex knew that if she stopped, she just might not go on. Might never return to that horrible place.

She’d have felt infinitely safer doing this in their shared bedroom, but at the same time that seemed wrong somehow. She had to honor Connie’s words, and she knew the only way to really do that was to read them in Connie’s prison. She wrapped her hand even more tightly around Connie’s diary, deep in her hoodie pocket.

Behind her, Maryanne carried a thick white candle. They would light it only when they got inside the attic door. Just an extra bit of precaution to avoid being caught. Maryanne had lifted the candle from the house kitchen. She’d been on clean-up duty tonight with a couple of first-floor girls. Two Grade Nine newbies from Fredericton who looked scared shitless to find themselves housed at Harvell.

Not that the candle was likely to be missed, at least not for a while. It was obviously an ornamental thing meant to be tucked into a Christmas centerpiece and never lit. In fact, no candles were ever lit at Harvell House. It was forbidden, no doubt for insurance reasons. Even during the power failures that often came with winter storms, no candles were permitted. Instead, they broke out the flashlights until the backup generator could restore electricity. All of which meant if they got caught with this candle, lit or unlit, they’d be in trouble for that alone, never mind the reaming out they’d get for entering the off-limits attic. Maryanne had to know this, yet here she was. And when Alex had instructed her to snag the candle, she’d done so with much less coaxing than Alex would have imagined. Actually, with no coaxing. Maybe Maryanne Hemlock wasn’t such a chickenshit after all.

And Brooke... she might not be a chickenshit, but she sure could be a shit.

Anyway, there was nothing to worry about. They weren’t going to get caught. It was well past midnight, late enough even for the wild girls to have crept back in on a school night. Lights out was ten o’clock, Sunday through Thursday and midnight on weekends, but Alex knew from experience that rule didn’t carry a whole lot of weight. Especially with her old crowd, or what remained of it. One had graduated, one was back in juvie out west, and one just hadn’t been heard from. That left Alex, Kassidy and Leah.

Kassidy and Leah. Alex felt the tension pouring in even just thinking about them. They’d been on her case since they’d come back to Harvell. They’d expected the same old hard-partying Alex. They’d fully expected her to have transferred down to their room by now, not to mention to have skipped classes with them—gym at the very least. They’d also expected her to join them that first night drinking down by the river with the college crowd. But she hadn’t gone. She hadn’t had a drink at all since that first day back. And she hadn’t asked for a new room assignment.

She had changed. She wanted to believe that. Needed to.

Fear would do that to a person, Alex knew. Scare them straight before something horrible—or more horrible—happened. But what could be more horrible than what she’d already gone through? Waking up half-naked on a hard floor, knowing she’d been raped. And remembering none of it.

Alex stumbled on the steps, and Maryanne tried to catch her as she fell forward. Alex could have caught herself if she used both hands, but she couldn’t bring herself to release the diary she gripped so tightly in her hoodie pocket. So she went down on one hand and one elbow, skinning the latter.

They all froze, waiting to see if the small thump would be heard, and if so, whether anyone would come to investigate it. But the quality of the silence didn’t change. Harvell House slept on.

You okay? Maryanne whispered, touching her arm.

Alex jerked away as she straightened. I’m fine.

Brooke flicked her lighter but the small, blue-white flame lit the pitch black of the stairwell only dimly.

This help? Brooke asked. There was the faintest hissing sound as she adjusted the flame higher.

Maryanne answered, A little.

Whatever, Alex said. She was still pissed at Brooke for forcing her to share the diary. We’re just about there anyway. No sooner had she said this, than the timbre of her footfalls changed, and she took that final trembling step off the stair treads onto the attic floor. She pulled in a choking breath. The dust... it stirred the few memories she did have, memories of waking up on the floor.

Except last time she’d been here, the room had been washed by the gray light of pre-dawn. Tonight, the white glow of moonlight poured into the small room from the lone window, laying a muted pattern on the floor. But unlike the light of dawn, this rectangle of moonlight only served to darken the room around it.

Alex’s eyes were drawn to the stained glass window itself, where the moonlight had set the decorative image darkly glowing.

That other morning, she’d barely glanced at the upper half of the window, but now all she could do was stare at the picture segmented into the glass. The Madonna holding her child. It should have been a peaceful image. It should have been calm. Serene. But it wasn’t. The poor woman stood in a bed of thorn-guarded roses. And the darkness in the glass bits at her feet could only represent one thing. The woman was bleeding as she stood there in the ancient window, high up in Harvell House.

Whoa—time warp! Brooke breathed.

Alex turned to her. Brooke was using the lighter again, and she’d moved toward the furniture piled in the corner. The same bed Alex had seen days before. The same bureau and rocking chair she’d pushed to the room’s center.

Spooky, creepy, time warp. Ouch! The lighter’s small flame went out. That gets hot, Brooke said by way of explanation for letting the light die.

You want to go back? Alex asked. She knew her voice was quick with hope—didn’t even try to hide it.

No way, Brooke walked toward the window and stepped into the light coming through it, her shadow long and thin behind her. Silently Maryanne followed and held out the candle, which Brooke obligingly lit. Alex watched as Maryanne dripped wax into the makeshift holder—a fancy glass ashtray Mrs. Betts only brought out when C. W. Stanley came to the house.

The two girls settled themselves on the floor, and Alex studied them in the moonlight.

Brooke’s eyes were avid as she took everything in.

Maryanne, on the other hand, seemed fascinated by the candle, staring quietly into the flame. She was pretty, sort of, in a straight-laced, not-trying kind of way. Not to be confused with the natural beauty that took some girls hours to achieve. This girl... she just flat out didn’t try. Luckily, she didn’t have to. She was smart, too. Alex knew that from the couple of classes they shared. But she had a hunch Miss Hemlock had led something of a sheltered life. How would she react to the revelations in Connie’s diary? Of what had happened to her here in this attic?

Or of what happened to me?

Something hammered at her memory again. Still! And all the harder up here, just outside her reach. What had he done to her? How had he gotten her up here? And the worst question of all, was it just he and not them?

God, it haunted her, not knowing who’d done this to her. She stared hard into the eyes of every boy at school, every man on the street, trying to see if anyone stared back a moment too long. But then what? How could she be sure? How could she accuse without betraying her secret?

She wrapped her arms around herself, holding the shaking in. Well, until she caught Maryanne, staring silently up at her from where she sat on floor. Alex loosened her shoulders immediately, shrugged them back into a don’t-mess-with me posture, and sat on the floor with the other two girls.

So you found the diary here? Brooke sat with her feet flat on the ground, knees pressed together and pulled up close, as if to prevent touching too