Page 32 of The Dearly Departed

But Shawn and Ike needed that type of interaction, a connection—even if it was, in Ike’s case, often toxic.

Sex with all strings attached.

Unnecessary, I thought, approaching the truck and reaching into the bed to lift the tarp.

I swallowed at the tall chest of drawers, a flicker of ancient memory standing at center stage in my mind's eye.

It wasn't the same one—couldn't be the same one—but it was identical.

The air left my lungs, as if I were just now being shoved against it as a young boy, my forehead smacking against the protruding lip of the dresser's top after I’d found the courage to confront our foster father, Jim, about the things Anna couldn’t say …

"And what are you gonna do about it? You think you can stop me, you little shit?”

“I’ll call the cops,” I warned, but I didn’t feel as tough as my words implied as his big body pressed against my back, crushing me against the dresser.

“And you actually think anyone would believe you?" he growled into my ear, and I felt his hot breath on my neck. "Or are you just jealous? Maybe you want some too, huh?"

No, I thought as his hands pressed against my back. God, please, no.

This wasn’t the Jim I knew.

The Jim I knew ran a tight ship, and he was strict. He liked to swing his fists when we didn’t listen. He used food against us, sent us to bed without dinner if we even looked at him the wrong way. But that felt like normal adult stuff, and it was better than what other people had done to us before.

Those people had done things like this, what Jim was doing to me now—things he’d never done before.

I’ve never done this before either, I thought stupidly as he slid his hands down my body and touched me where I knew a grown-up should never touch a kid.

Yes, hands had been on me, and I’d been forced to use my mouth in ways I didn’t want to. But I had never been touched there, where Jim was touching me now. Somehow, it felt more wrong than anything had before. Dirtier. So filthy, in fact, that I instantly wanted to take a shower as he squirmed his fingers around, poking and prodding.

But I wouldn’t fight him. I knew it would hurt less if I didn’t fight. But, oh God, I was angry. Angry and embarrassed and betrayed and so, so sick of living like this.

I’d thought Jim was different. I’d thought he wasn’t sick.

But I’d been wrong.

"Just stay away from her," I replied, gritting my teeth as his slimy hands tugged at my pants and underwear, letting them drop around my ankles. “I’ll kill you if you touch her again.”

Jim laughed at the empty threat as he forced my body to bend over, and I did as willingly as I could, holding on to the dresser with a white-knuckled grip, even though every part of my being wished to cry, scream, and beg.

God, I wanted to run away.

Far, far, far away.

But I’d be okay. I was always okay.

Because if he was doing this to me, maybe … just maybe … he’d keep his hands off of her.

I held the edge of the truck's bed until my knuckles whitened and ached, and for a moment, I thought I could crack steel.

My lungs forced the air in and out of my chest, pulling me back to the present and out of that bedroom from somewhere far away and long ago.

It's a dresser. Just a dresser.

Shawn or Ike must've seen it on the side of the road and thought it would be useful.

Leonard provided us with everything we needed, and anything else, we could buy ourselves with the money we earned from working at the funeral home. We wanted for nothing. We were far from the boys we once had been, starved and abused, running away to the streets to find relief from the torture. We didn't need to steal from stores or grab trash from the curb to get by, but no amount of time and love could remove those bricks from our core foundation.

I would always be wary of people, and I was unlikely to want physical contact with another human again.