uncontrollably, she slumped to her side and curled into a tight ball.
6
L ight leaked from the edges of the small, haphazardly covered windows, spilling weakly into the darkness. With a strangled cry of relief, Becky Lynn crawled up onto the sagging front porch.
Home. Sheâd made it home at last.
She rested her forehead against the porch floor, struggling to even her shallow, ragged breathing. She hurt. Her belly, her head and jaw, between her legs. But the physical pain didnât compare to the ache inside her, the ache that couldnât be measured in physical terms, the damage that couldnât be repaired or healed with bandage or salve. Inside, sheâd been ripped to pieces.
She would never be whole again.
Shaking, Becky Lynn grasped the porch railing and pulled herself to her feet, trembling so badly she feared she would fall. She had no idea of the time, no idea how long sheâd lain behind the outbuilding, bleeding and raw, waiting for the wail of the police siren that had never come.
Images, horrific and unwanted, flashed lightning-like through her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach pitching. She held the vomit back through sheer force of will. She wouldnât be sick, she wouldnât allow Ricky and Tommy to take anything more from herâtheyâd already taken the only things that had been truly hers, the onlythings that had been worth having. Her body. The last vestige of her girlish idealism. Her hope.
She crossed the porch to the door, thinking for the first time of her family. She had never been late before, had never failed to show up by dinnertime. She pictured herself, how she must lookâdirty, bruised and bloody, her clothes ripped. She curved her shaking fingers around the doorknob. Had anyone worried at her absence? When they saw her, what would they think?
She opened the door and stepped inside. And smelled the whiskey. Its stench hung in the air like a cloud, and she realized dimly that her father had somehow scraped together enough money for a fifth.
She shifted her gaze. He sat slumped in front of the television, Randy beside him, pale and tense. Her father didnât move, but as the door screeched, her brother turned his head. He met her eyes and for one electric moment stared at her, then slid his gaze guiltily away.
Her brother had known what his friends had planned to do to her.
She sucked in a sharp breath, the realization spinning through her, bringing her to a point past anger or disbelief, past hysteria. Had her brother encouraged them? Had he laughed with them when they talked about how they would put a bag over her head so they wouldnât have to look at her while they raped her?
The sickness threatened to overwhelm her again, and she brought a hand to her mouth, fighting it back. Tears stung her eyes. âHow?â she managed to say, her voice thick with tears and grief. âHowâ¦could you? Youâre my brother.â
Randy lifted his gaze to hers. She had the brief impression of a deer, frozen in the shocking glare of headlights. His expression, pinched and frightened, took on an ashen pallor.
âWhen we were small, remember how we played together? None of the other children would comeâ¦near us. Remember?â
Randy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes once more. She shook her head, her pain nearly unbearable. âI would have done anything to protect you. I did protect you. So many tiââ She curved her arms around herself. âAnd now youâ¦you let themâ¦doâ¦this toââ
She choked this last back, unable to take her brotherâs guilty silence, the damning truth of that silence, a moment longer. Turning toward the kitchen, she went in search of her mother.
Glenna Lee sat at the kitchen table, still as a stone, gazing at nothing, her eyes vacant, her hands working at a fold of her robe. Becky Lynn stared at her, at the way her fingers moved back and forth over the worn
6
L ight leaked from the edges of the small, haphazardly covered windows, spilling weakly into the darkness. With a strangled cry of relief, Becky Lynn crawled up onto the sagging front porch.
Home. Sheâd made it home at last.
She rested her forehead against the porch floor, struggling to even her shallow, ragged breathing. She hurt. Her belly, her head and jaw, between her legs. But the physical pain didnât compare to the ache inside her, the ache that couldnât be measured in physical terms, the damage that couldnât be repaired or healed with bandage or salve. Inside, sheâd been ripped to pieces.
She would never be whole again.
Shaking, Becky Lynn grasped the porch railing and pulled herself to her feet, trembling so badly she feared she would fall. She had no idea of the time, no idea how long sheâd lain behind the outbuilding, bleeding and raw, waiting for the wail of the police siren that had never come.
Images, horrific and unwanted, flashed lightning-like through her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach pitching. She held the vomit back through sheer force of will. She wouldnât be sick, she wouldnât allow Ricky and Tommy to take anything more from herâtheyâd already taken the only things that had been truly hers, the onlythings that had been worth having. Her body. The last vestige of her girlish idealism. Her hope.
She crossed the porch to the door, thinking for the first time of her family. She had never been late before, had never failed to show up by dinnertime. She pictured herself, how she must lookâdirty, bruised and bloody, her clothes ripped. She curved her shaking fingers around the doorknob. Had anyone worried at her absence? When they saw her, what would they think?
She opened the door and stepped inside. And smelled the whiskey. Its stench hung in the air like a cloud, and she realized dimly that her father had somehow scraped together enough money for a fifth.
She shifted her gaze. He sat slumped in front of the television, Randy beside him, pale and tense. Her father didnât move, but as the door screeched, her brother turned his head. He met her eyes and for one electric moment stared at her, then slid his gaze guiltily away.
Her brother had known what his friends had planned to do to her.
She sucked in a sharp breath, the realization spinning through her, bringing her to a point past anger or disbelief, past hysteria. Had her brother encouraged them? Had he laughed with them when they talked about how they would put a bag over her head so they wouldnât have to look at her while they raped her?
The sickness threatened to overwhelm her again, and she brought a hand to her mouth, fighting it back. Tears stung her eyes. âHow?â she managed to say, her voice thick with tears and grief. âHowâ¦could you? Youâre my brother.â
Randy lifted his gaze to hers. She had the brief impression of a deer, frozen in the shocking glare of headlights. His expression, pinched and frightened, took on an ashen pallor.
âWhen we were small, remember how we played together? None of the other children would comeâ¦near us. Remember?â
Randy shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes once more. She shook her head, her pain nearly unbearable. âI would have done anything to protect you. I did protect you. So many tiââ She curved her arms around herself. âAnd now youâ¦you let themâ¦doâ¦this toââ
She choked this last back, unable to take her brotherâs guilty silence, the damning truth of that silence, a moment longer. Turning toward the kitchen, she went in search of her mother.
Glenna Lee sat at the kitchen table, still as a stone, gazing at nothing, her eyes vacant, her hands working at a fold of her robe. Becky Lynn stared at her, at the way her fingers moved back and forth over the worn
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