Page 12 of Wicked Promises

The room was cold. The surface of the table in front of me was sticky. Spilled milk maybe, or coffee that hadn’t been wiped away.

I avoided putting my arms on the table, keeping them crossed over my chest instead. The entire house smelled like spoiled food. It was rotten, and the scent seemed to have climbed into my nostrils and dug in.

Even when I went outside, I still smelled it.

“Some lady is here for you.” The foster mom swept into the kitchen like she was the queen of the castle and she didn’t notice it was rotting. “Not sure why anyone would want to visit with you. Did you even brush your hair this morning?”

My hair was often a wild tangle, even after brushing. I was fourteen, not four. Basic hygiene had been part of my routine for a while, without any oversight from previous foster parents.

I left my cereal—maybe that was the spoiled smell?—and went to the front door. If it was my social worker, Ms. McCaw, the foster mom would’ve said. She probably would’ve seemedmore anxious, too, seeing as how the state of the place was not great.

But because she didn’t, I was left with a mild curiosity about who awaited me.

I yanked the door open.

Houses like this always had porches. Big wraparound ones that made everyone else in the neighborhood jealous, but it was the inside that was bleak. Pretty outside, sick inside.

My mother stood on this one, within reaching distance. Only a screen separated us.

Shock filtered through me. Her brown eyes, much like mine, bore into me. She fidgeted. There were spots on her neck, bruises. A scrape across her cheek.

My heart kicked against my ribs.

She hated me, but she checked up on me.

It was our little secret.

I pushed past the screen door and took a few steps out onto the porch. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, fighting an immediate shiver. Winter was sliding into spring, and more often than not the days were warm. But at this time of the morning, before school, the air still had a bite to it.

Her attention went from my face to the thrift store clothes, then down to my boots. They were falling apart. The laces broke the other day, and I had to duct tape them back together so I could keep wearing them.

Boots were more practical in everyday life than soft-topped sneakers. You could run in boots. Kick shit in them. Stomp on your enemies in them. Never mind that my classmates laughed at me for them. They always pointed and whispered about my clothing, my hair, my boots. The worn, hand-me-down backpack, the short pencil I meticulously sharpened to make sure it lasted.

I cleared my throat and waited for her to speak.

Her gaze snapped up. “I heard you moved.”

“Shithole house.” I slipped past her. Down the stairs, all the way to the sidewalk. It wasn’t often I got to take a deep breath of clean air, but sure enough, that rotten stench was still there. Ruining it once again. “The foster mom’s a bitch. Her husband is even worse.”

He leered.

They had sex in the middle of the night when they thought we were asleep. The box spring squealed loudly, never failing to jar us awake. She never made a noise, but he did. Grunts that filled our ears. The smallest girl would climb into bed with me, burying her head in my chest under the covers.

At my age, I knew about sex—but I didn’t want to think about it. And I definitely didn’t want to hear it almost every night.

Mom followed. “Karma’s a bitch, too.”

I snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

“They giving you an allowance?”

Part of me still wanted to be loved by my mother, and I would do anything to get her to stay. If I gave her money—like I had in the past—she would come back.

It wasn’t guesswork.

She would run out of money again, and then she’d show up wherever I was. Even if it was only for a few minutes.

But right now, I had nothing.