“Sara really came at me,” I say, thinking of the plea deal. Just the idea of it makes my stomach hurt. I should tell the boys; I’m just trying to figure out how to word it, so they don’t decide to get all stabby on Sara Young. “Pretty sure she knows we aren’t ‘just high school kids’ now,” I say with a long sigh. Remember what Nora Roberts said: some of the balls you’re juggling are made of plastic, the others glass. Drop what you need to drop, Bernie.

“Bernadette,” Victor begins, a warning in his voice. “Your mother is here.”

A sharp, hot anger overtakes me as I exhale. I put the water bottle aside and stand up with a groan. There’s no blood on my thighs this time, so I guess I was right that the bleeding seems to be slowing. According to Google, early miscarriages sometimes only result in a few hours of heavy bleeding. It’s been, what, a day for me? I’m almost through this hurdle, yet another one I can check off my list of accomplishments. Survive beating on front lawn of high school, survive ensuing miscarriage.

“Let me deal with her,” I say, but all of the boys are standing now. I turn and sweep a narrowed-eyed gaze across them. Maybe I’m bleeding like hell from my vagina and cramping so bad I want to scream, but that’s what I do best: persevere. “I’ve got this. Seriously. Do not fucking intervene.”

I head for the door and open it, but not before Oscar puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Let me check for snipers,” he says, which is legit one of the weirdest and most romantic things any guy has ever said to me. He slips past me, and even though I don’t see any weapons on him, I just know he’s got one there somewhere.

Pamela is already halfway across the lawn when Oscar gives me the all clear.

I step out onto the porch and lean my shoulder against the exterior wall of the garage. Well, what used to be a garage. More like a dedicated grow room now. In typical Prescott fashion, Pam comes at me with violence brimming in her red-painted fingernails. She’d love nothing more than to dig them into my arm or slap me across the face, but I guess Oscar’s presence—or the police across the street—give her pause.

Guess she’s not as stupid as I once thought.

“Where is my daughter?” she demands, dressed in a white blouse that looks more suited to a country club than to the southside. I wonder if she stole this one or purchased it with one of the credit cards she ‘borrows’ off of her rich friends. Pamela Pence is nothing but a world class manipulator. I’ve known lots of those—Kali, Coraleigh, Neil, etc.—but Pam has always had a certain level of finesse that they didn’t have. She’s much better at not getting caught.

“I’m standing right in front of you,” I tell her, and then I lick my lower lip. It tastes like caustic biting remarks and bullshit, acid and fucked-up lies. I cannot stop the next words that fall from my mouth. It’s as if they’ve been summoned by some dark goddess just to incite drama. “Or were you referring to the one you let your husband rape on the regular?”

Pamela’s mouth thins into a line, but she doesn’t react, not the way I so desperately wish she would.

“Where is Heather?” she snaps, and I smile.

Heather.

I won’t let anyone use her or hurt her, not for any reason.

“Out of your reach,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve got on an old t-shirt that has the face of some hideous guy on the front with the word NOPE! slashed over his eyes. I can’t remember if he was just a racist, sexist reality TV host or if he was like, a senator or something. He might even have been president, but shit if I can remember. I think the shirt used to be Pen’s, but it was in the duffel bag full of clothes I packed when I stopped by the house with Cal. I don’t remember packing it, but I’m damn sure glad to have it. “Why? Are you worried about her?”

“I told you that you’d regret pissing me off,” Pamela warns me, shaking her head. “And now Neil is dead because of you.” I cock a brow. This is the perfect opportunity to test out my bullshitting skills. They’ve been honed to a fine point living in Prescott; I expect nothing less than perfection from myself.

“Because of me? No, he was working for some white supremacist gang from Portland. Likely, that’s what got him.” I pause as Pam stares me down with matching emerald eyes. Why do we have to share the same eyes, me and her? The same skin color. The same shade of ashy white blonde hair (when hers isn’t overly processed, that is). It isn’t fair, for us to look so alike. If I share so many of her physical traits, is some of her ugliness in my DNA as well? “You didn’t … kill him yourself, did you?” I hazard and Pamela’s nostrils flare wide, the sickly-sweet scent of her perfume making me feel dizzy. Or maybe that’s the blood loss? I have no idea. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself.

“What the fuck are you playing at, little girl?” Pamela asks me, and I swear to fuck, I have to have a PTSD attack right then and there. Little girl, little girl, little girl.

“You sit your ass in here and think about what you’ve done, little girl.” Pamela’s nails are digging into my arm so hard that blood runs hot and wet down to my elbow, drip, drip, dripping to the floor. She shoves me into the bathroom so hard that I stumble, smacking my chin on the edge of the bathtub as tears run down my face like rivers. There’s something smelly in the bathtub, something that reeks of bleach.

“Mom, I’m sorry!” I wail, pushing up to my feet and trying to get to the door before she slams it in my face and locks it from the outside. I didn’t realize until I was much older how weird it is to have a lock on the outside of a bathroom door. “Mom, please!”

I didn’t mean to spill the orange juice. Pen stuck French fries in her nose, and I laughed so hard that I bumped it with my foot. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to …

I shake my head and reach my fingers up to my temple. Oscar waits at the edge of the driveway, his eyes as sharp as daggers. Our eyes meet, but only for a second. Then Pamela is slapping me across the face as hot blood begins to run down my legs. I’ve overfilled my cup. Again.

Scratch what I said about the bleeding slowing down. Too optimistic too soon, I guess.

I feel dizzy.

I put my hand to my cheek, but I don’t retaliate. I don’t need to.

“I know you were upset when you saw that video of Neil raping Penelope. Any mother would be. In fact, I don’t blame you for doing what you did—”

Pamela is on me like white on rice. That’s white trash, southside shit for you. One time, her best friend went to a Halloween party without her. You should’ve seen how my mother blew up. “I will ruin that cunt! I. will. RUIN. her!” She ripped the woman’s earrings out and hit her so hard in the face that she gave her a blowout fracture.

Neil and his family got my mom out of facing any charges. Unsurprising.

Pam grabs my hair and yanks me toward the grass, and I let her. I could fight back and kick her ass. If I wanted to.

“Don’t touch her!” I yell at the boys, because I need them to show restraint right now. “She won’t hurt me, not really.” Pamela throws me into the grass, bleeding and shaking. But not because of her. Fuck. My fight or fight harder instinct is blazing so hot, I wouldn’t be surprised to stand up and see a burnt swatch in the grass beneath me. “Mom, please!”