Elena sat on the edge of her bed with her back against the wall and listened to the silence downstairs.

The door was closed. She had not locked it. Locking it felt pointless now. The high-necked top still covered the lower bruises, but the fabric felt thin and useless. Every mark under it throbbed in time with her pulse. Between her legs the thick presence of Marcus from that morning sat heavy and warm and completely exposed, like the rest of the secret. She could still see the tracking notes on the inside of her eyelids—He told me to keep it in. Answering it. Peak window.—and the way her mother’s...