a security guard keep the world at bay. Hannah—” His voice takes on that heavy edge that means he’s about to deliver one of his trademark “I’m just looking out for you” speeches. “I just don’t understand why you had to move out. You had a room all to yourself. A bathroom. Kaitlin didn’t mind, and I could protect you.”
“I’m twenty-one, Bran,” I whisper.
But to be honest, I’m not sure why either after so many years of living under his thumb. Why now? Why this ratty place, as far from his as my budget—and fall classes—would allow. It certainly wasn’t the only rental listing and definitely not the most spacious. I think the real answer lies in the fact that I scouted it out on my own. Met with the landlord and toured the dusty rooms on my own. In fact, I hadn’t even told Branden I was moving out until I’d paid my security deposit.
And phoned my parents to get their approval.
If I let him talk me out of this apartment, it will be even easier for him to talk me out of the next one. And the one after. In the end, I’ll be thirty, still living in his guestroom under his careful watch.
Even with the stupid camera, this is better.
“Are you busy tonight?”
Alarm shoots down my spine. This conversation isn’t anywhere near over. Not that I’m in any position to stall. My throat constricts, but I force myself to keep breathing.
Stay calm.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good.” He crosses over to the door, pulling it open. “I’ll take you out to dinner. We need to talk.”
“Dad called.” Branden casually tucks a piece of brown hair behind his ear and glances at the ornate mirror hanging on the wall across from where we stand. In lieu of his uniform, he’s wearing a White Sox T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The casual attire cuts years off his age; he almost resembles a college student taking a break from finals.
And our resemblance is on display to its fullest effect—light and dark—two halves of the same damaged coin.
Beside him, I look sickly. My hair is an unruly mess coiled on the top of my head, and bloodshot eyes betray the lack of sleep I’d gotten last night. The only redeeming quality is my outfit—a starched yellow blouse and a gray skirt—but it’s painfully obvious I overcompensated. Bright colors and neatly ironed lines can only disguise so much.
Like the scent of secondhand smoke lingering in my clothing.
The blood still caked beneath my fingernails.
The touch I still feel rasping over my skin.
“Hannah?”
“Oh?” I shrug, though my heart is racing. Random invitations to dinner simply aren’t Branden’s style.
He even let me pick the place, so we went to The Red Duck, a Chinese restaurant a few blocks away from my apartment. Despite how he sneers at the scenery, he has yet to make a single derogatory comment. It’s like he’s gearing up to broach one topic in particular.
His next words prove it. “So…Dad said you asked for some money?”
“Yeah.” I do my best to muster up what I hope passes for another casual shrug. In the mirror, my failure is reflected. My eyes are too wide. Fearful.
“You did,” Branden says cautiously. “What for?”
From across the room, a waitress approaches, wearing a bright red kimono-style miniskirt. She’s pretty with long black hair accented with a sparkly butterfly hair clip and dark eyes that dart from me to Branden and widen. Her reaction makes me frown. Something about her face triggers a sense of recognition, but I don’t know why. My attention keeps drifting to her hairclip, and that uncanny sensation grows stronger.
I know her somehow.
But her name isn’t familiar. A name tag pinned to her chest reads, “Faith,” which seems ironic enough to explain the unease. If only Branden had any faith left in me—maybe then I could avoid the interrogation that I know is coming.
Right on cue, he clears his throat. “You never ask for money. And since when are you into designer purses?”
Biting my lip, I say nothing while Faith leads us to a secluded booth near the back of a beautifully decorated dining room.
“H-Here you are,” she says, cutting her eyes to the floor as Branden pushes past her and settles onto the bench. She’s gone before I’ve even taken my seat.
“What did you need the money for?” Branden asks. He casually flips through his menu, but I recognize his tone.
“N-Nothing.” My voice trembles, nearly swallowed up by the clang of silverware and murmuring voices.
I