Dirty Thief

Prologue

Ava

I clutch the stolen book like a lifeline. Crouched on my knees under a thin, scratchy blanket, I’m a tiny ball of greed, devouring the beautiful words. In my hand is a keychain-sized LED flashlight I stole from foster person Dwayne (I’ll never call him Daddy), and with the other, I slide my finger down the page as I read.

“I think I know enough of hate…

that for destruction, ice is also great…”

I speak the words aloud in a voice just above a whisper.

I know enough of hate.

Robert Frost.

Closing my eyes, I imagine Dwayne encased in ice. I imagine huge blocks of ice falling on him, crushing his bones. I imagine him trapped under ice, his skin freezing and turning black. I see the skin peeling away on those fat fingers he uses to touch me. I see his mouth open and ice breaking out all his teeth. I see him ground to powder under clear blocks of rock-hard water.

Then I see me dousing the entire heap with lighter fluid and setting it all ablaze.

Fire and Ice.

The bedroom door creaks, and I click off the light. My breath stills as fear shoots through my stomach on a cramp.

School pictures had come today. At dinner he had one of mine—a wallet-sized one—and he’d made a big show of putting it in that plastic accordion thing.

“Beautiful Ava,” he’d said, watery brown eyes moving from the small photograph to my face. “The most beautiful one.”

I’d been reaching for a roll at the time, and his eyes slid down my arm like a raw egg.

“This goes in my special wallet,” he continued. “The one I keep here.”

My throat closed up, and I pulled my hand back, tucking it under my leg. I wasn’t hungry anymore.

Now he’s in my room. I’m under the blanket, crouched in the darkness, but I can hear his labored breathing. He’s standing in the doorway. The floor creaks as he enters, and tears are in my eyes. I hiccup a breath as the pressure of his body indents the side of my bed. The blanket slowly slides down, uncovering my head to my shoulders, and I place my hand over my mouth.

“Beautiful Ava,” he whispers, and the nauseating scent of stale whiskey on hot breath surrounds me.

I’m a stone clutching the book so hard my knuckles ache. My sister Zelda is across the room, and I can hear the soft noise of her snoring. Most nights, it’s a comforting sound. She’s always near me. Tonight it’s terrifying. How deeply is she sleeping?

“Beautiful Ava,” he repeats like a chant, and his fleshy palm touches my lower back.

I whimper as it moves lower. I’m not protected. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. I don’t know whether I should throw my arms and legs out, struggle and scream, or clench tighter. I don’t know what turns him on, and I begin to pray. Dear God, let him pass out. Please let him pass out…

“So soft…” His hand circles my back, dipping lower with each pass.

Fresh tears heat my eyes, and a sob jerks through my throat.

“No…” I whimper, not even trying to pretend anymore.