I repeat myself.
Over.
And over.
I don’t know how long I spend yelling, kicking, and scratching. He takes every bit of it without letting me go, not even for a second, rubbing soothing circles on my back. His tender caress continues even when my body is drained of energy and all my fight evaporates, leaving me limp in his hold as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m back. There’s nothing that will separate us now.”
I’ve stopped hearing Marcus’s cry in the background. I don’t have the energy to care that my foster father is dead in the seat, only a few feet away from us. Or that the man who tormented me for the past three years is bleeding out.
I’m so exhausted from everything.
When will it be enough? When will I be able to truly live?
But only two words are swirling through my head: He’s back.
I want to believe him.
But Roman Riviera is a liar.
Chapter 2
ROMAN
14 Years Ago
Roman: 8 years old – Isabella: 6 years old.
I hate this part of the city as much as I hate the other.
I hate school. Doesn’t matter which school, I know I’ll hate it.
I hate Steve.
I think I hate Steve more than I hate Troy, and I’ve only known Steve for three weeks. I’ve learned he yells louder when I speak in a language he doesn’t understand. Idiot. Yelling tires him out—I think it’s because of the beer he drinks. He leaves me alone the sooner he starts yelling. Then I can run to the room I share with some boy half my size and another guy who’s older than us and thinks that makes him better.
He’s not better. I’m still teaching him this lesson.
I hate those two boys too, Josh and Perez, but since we all agree that we hate Steve more than we hate each other, we haven’t killed each other yet.
I’ll give myself another month in this place before I’m sent to another home. After being expelled from all the other schools on the city's eastern side, Margaret said they had no choice but to move me to another area where they can “accommodate” my different needs.
I’m not sure what that means, but at least I don’t hate Margaret—except when she gives me that look where her eyebrows pinch, and I know she’s about to sigh, “Again, Roman?”
She tries to make me talk about my feelings. She also likes to bring me snacks. I know it’s a bribe because I’ll do anything for a Pop-Tart.
I’m always so freaking hungry.
Even if she feeds me, all adults are stupid. She’s as useless as the rest if she can’t do anything about Steve. Or maybe she doesn’t want to.
But I heard Steve say a couple of words to describe his wife that I think works well for Margaret （sometimes）： Fucking Bitch. I don’t know what it means.
Maybe I’ll ask the teacher about it.
I even told Margaret about going into Steve’s basement one night without food and not leaving the cold room until the next night.
A whole twenty-eight hours—wait. Are there twenty-eight or twenty-four hours in a day?
Ugh. It doesn’t matter because I saw her write “active imagination” after I told her last week. That was three weeks after I hit a teacher on the first week of school and ended up here… at another school. In my defense, the teacher called me a menace when I wasn’t being one.
So I showed him what a real menace looked like.
Then that stupid teacher called me an “attention seeker.” Frick him.
Anyway, I have a plan. Perez said there’s one other school in the area. If I get kicked out of this school and the other, Margaret said they won’t have a choice but to move me to another city or a group home. And then her brows will pinch, then she’ll say, “Again, Roman, really? We talked about this.”
Not like moving me would make any difference. All the schools will be crap, and all the teachers will be the same.
The vice principal of Woodside Elementary and Ms. Something are saying the same thing the last school told me. I’m only listening to snippets of it as we walk to class.
We’re here to support you, Roman.
We understand moving to another school in the middle of the year is very scary.
All the other kids are going to love you, Roman.
We want what’s best for you, Roman.
It’s what they all say. But they don’t mean it, because if they did, they wouldn’t make me live with someone like Steve.
Or Troy.
The dad at the last house was a fan of throwing things to practice his aim. He liked using us kids as moving targets. The mom of the house did her best to make up for it by making sure there was food on the table every day, even if it was just a slice of bread.