Carmine went through the emergency room entrance at the hospital, bypassing the nurse’s station for his father’s office on the third floor. Vincent sat at his desk with his arms crossed over his chest. He motioned for Carmine to come closer and checked his wound. “You should get a few stitches.”

“Nice.”

Vincent removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What were you thinking?”

“He started it.”

His father shook his head. “It’s never your fault, is it? There are only going to be so many ‘get out of jail free’ cards, Carmine. Someday you’re going to get yourself in a situation that has no way out, and you’re finally going to have to learn to live with the consequences.”

Carmine scoffed. “Right back at you.”

Vincent walked him down to a room in the emergency room, and Carmine took a seat on one of the stiff beds as he waited to be sewn up. After a few minutes, the door opened and a young blonde-haired woman in hot pink scrubs stepped in. “My, my . . . look who it is.”

“Jen.” Carmine nearly gagged as he said her name. If ever the term gold digger was to make it into the dictionary, Carmine was sure her picture would be plastered beside it. Even he wouldn’t touch her, but his father had. He’d walked in on them one day. The memory of what he’d seen was something he often tried to drink away.

Three stitches and a stolen double dose of Percocet later, Carmine strolled toward the exit, feeling like he was floating on air. Vincent cornered him in front of the building, still scowling. “Go straight home. We’ll talk when I get there.”

Carmine mock-saluted him as he made his way to the parking lot. His car was parked in a spot reserved for a doctor, right in the front near the building. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, his brow furrowed when he felt a piece of paper. “Fuck.”

He’d forgotten about the list, after all.

He climbed into the car, debating for a moment before driving through town. He bypassed the road that led toward home and instead took the highway to Lisa’s.

Since he was going to be in trouble, he figured he might as well make it worth it.

Haven hummed while she worked.

It was a habit she’d had all of her life. Her mama used to say that before Haven could talk, she hummed, mimicking the lullabies she’d sung to her at night in the stables. It had calmed her as a baby, soothed her, and as she went about her work, it had a similar effect.

The words to the songs were long forgotten, but the melodies continued to play in her head. It brought Haven back to an earlier time—a time when things were still innocent. She’d hum, and suddenly the sun shined a bit brighter, the world around her not as dark as she knew it could be.

Used to having every detail of her life controlled, she had a hard time sorting through things on her own. She should’ve gotten clarification, because nothing should be assumed, but she was so afraid of making a mistake that she couldn’t force the questions out. She’d already upset Dr. DeMarco once asking something. How many chances would she get before he snapped?

So she did whatever came naturally to her. That afternoon, she scrubbed the hardwood floors and cleaned the bathrooms. She dusted and vacuumed, but stayed away from every room with a lock. She found a clear bottle in the supply closet, labeled in black lettering that it was for the windows. They were the only dirty part of the house, so she cleaned them as high up as she could reach.

By three o’clock, Haven was fresh out of things to do.

She was sorting through the pantry when the alarm in the foyer beeped and the front door opened. Footsteps headed her direction and her heart thumped wildly. Panicked, she darted for the doorway, irrationally planning to hide, and collided with Dominic when he stepped into the kitchen. “Whoa, Twinkle Toes. Warn me next time you wanna dance.”

Instinctively, she backed up a few steps. “I’m sorry.”

“No biggie,” he said, heading for the refrigerator. “You hungry?”

Haven watched the doorway for his company, realizing after a moment he was talking to her. She stammered, her stomach growling before she could get out a coherent thought.

He laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He slapped some ham and cheese between two slices of bread and grabbed a paper towel, holding it out to her. She stared at the sandwich with surprise but took it carefully. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten anything, too nervous to touch their food on her own.

Haven took a small bite as Dominic cleaned up, the entire exchange surreal. She couldn’t believe he’d served her, the servant.

3

Haven sat on the edge of her bed, her hands folded in her lap and her gaze trained on the floor. She could see Dr. DeMarco’s shoes from the corner of her eye, a small trail of dirt on the carpet behind them that he’d dragged in. The impulsive urge to clean it hit her, but she remained still, not wanting to offend him.

It was a few minutes past six in the evening. She’d slipped up to her room after eating her sandwich earlier in the day, feeling out of place downstairs.

“You cleaned.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I told you to relax.”

She tensed. Was that disrespectful? “I was awake and didn’t know what else to do.”

“I appreciate the effort,” he said. “In all honesty, I can’t recall the windows ever being free of grime. You did clean them, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you used the correct cleaner?”

“I think so,” she said. “The clear bottle from the closet.”

He took a step toward her. She flinched when his hand shot out, but her reaction didn’t stop him. Grasping her chin, he forced her to look at him. “I don’t expect perfection, child. Make sure the house is decent, the beds are made, and the laundry is done, and we shouldn’t have any problems. Dinner is to be on the table at seven every night, unless I tell you otherwise. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. DeMarco let go of her, and she looked away, eye contact uncomfortable. He turned to walk out of the room but stopped in the library when he realized she was right on his heels. “Is there something you need?”

“It’s already after six, so I thought I should start dinner.”

He sighed. “Tomorrow. Take the night off.”

She stood there as he walked away, leaving her alone in front of the stairs. Take the night off. The words ran through her mind but refused to sink in, as foreign to her as another language.

Who are these people?

1:47 A.M.

The glowing red numbers on the alarm clock taunted Haven. It was too quiet, the silence deafening. She’d never been on her own for so long before. Even at night in the stables the animals had kept her company while she slept. She usually had her mama, and she realized, as she lay in the dark room, that she’d taken her for granted. She had no one now. She was alone.

2:12 A.M.

She thought about her mama, wondering what she was doing and if she was okay. Did she know what happened, or was she imagining her out there somewhere, getting help? Haven pictured her standing on the front porch of the ranch, gazing out at the desert and waiting for a sign. Waiting for rescue. Waiting for her.

3:28 A.M.

Haven wondered what would’ve happened had she found someone to save them. Would they be somewhere together? She imagined them having their own house, with a backyard and a fluffy white kitten to keep them company. They’d name her Snowball and she’d climb their tree at Christmas, tearing down the lights and scattering pine needles. They’d have presents and hot chocolate, and there would be snow outside. Haven had only ever seen snow in pictures, but her mama talked about it sometimes. She told her how beautiful it was when it blanketed the ground, how the cold flakes tasted when they landed on your tongue. Haven asked how she knew, since she’d never had a life other than the one they had. “I dream about it,” she’d said. “When you dream, you can go anywhere. I always go to the snow.”

4:18 A.M.

Haven pictured her mama, skin flushed from the cold. Flakes stuck to her hair, and she glowed, smiling as she twirled in the snow. She was happier than Haven had ever seen her before, living a normal life . . . the kind of life she always should have had.

5:03 A.M.

Her cheeks were stained from tears and her eyes burned like grains of sand were caught in them. She felt like she was running again, the air suffocating as she struggled to breathe, but no matter how hard she fought, she’d get nowhere.

5:46 A.M.

The faint sound of music filtered into the room, a welcome disruption from the agonizing silence. The soft melody comforted Haven. She relaxed as the tension left her body, but it did nothing to shut off her mind. She lay awake, listening as she stared at the clock, wishing for relief.

6:30 A.M.

The time they’d gotten up at the ranch. Haven climbed out of bed after the music stopped and wiped the tears from her face. She quietly slipped into the library and wandered along the tall stacks, running her fingertips along the spines of the books. She kept the light off, but the window let in enough of a glow for her to see. A strange sense of peace settled over her. For the first time in a long time—possibly ever—Haven almost felt safe.

Almost.

She walked to the window and gazed out, the sky lightening as the sun rose. The backyard was lush and green, trees scattered throughout the clearing with the edge of the forest a few hundred yards away. Haven wondered how far the trees went and which direction the closest town was, how long it would take someone to get there on foot.

Eventually, a quiet cough warned her she was no longer alone. Carmine strolled toward the stairs with a white bandage on his head that hadn’t been there yesterday. The sight of him made something inside of Haven twist.

His gaze shifted to her, and he jumped, grabbing his chest. “Christ, what are you doing?”

“Just looking,” she said, motioning toward the window.

“In the dark? You couldn’t turn on a light?”

She tore her eyes from his. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Just try to make some noise next time. You’re worse than a damn cat sneaking around. Maybe you need a bell.”

Traitorous tears formed. Don’t let him see you cry, she silently chanted. “I’ll try.”

“Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?”

“Haven,” she said quietly, peeking at him.

He gazed at her peculiarly. His eyes were bloodshot, dark bags under them. “Heaven? No, this definitely isn’t Heaven. But I get why you’re confused, since I’m standing in front of you.” She stared at him, and he cracked a smile. “I’m kidding. Well, kinda . . . I have been told I’ve taken a girl to Heaven a time or two.”

“Haven, not Heaven,” she said, louder than before. Nothing about the conversation made sense to her. “My name’s Haven. It means—”

“I know what it means.” His sharp voice cut her off. She recoiled from the tone and pressed her back against the cold glass of the window. His moods changed too quickly for her to get a read on his frame of mind. “So, what happened to you? I mean, no offense, but you’re kinda fucked up. Looks like you’ve been to Hell and back.”