Prologue #2
“Yeah, Beau. It’s worth it,” she said to me, and I swelled with pride. Of course, her life is better with me in it.
I’m Beau Bradley. The best player Cherry Hill has ever seen. I’m going places. And Gracyn Moreno is my best friend. Always will be. Which means all those places I’m going? She’s coming too.
What the fuck, G?
Where are u
I won state. I won. You were supposed to be here
When she still doesn’t respond, I storm to my truck. Anger and agitation commingle in my gut as I ignore the voices at my back. I haven’t even seen my parents yet. I haven’t greeted Coach. What the fuck is wrong with Gracyn? How could she not be here for me on the most important day of my life?
I force myself to drive the speed limit home, pulling carefully into my driveway and shifting to park.
The lights are off at my house; my parents still at the stadium.
Ground-level lights at Gracyn’s are on. The yellowish glint turns the house’s lavender into a weird dream-like orange.
My house is blue, a slate gray at night.
Two perfect pieces of suburbia on this perfect street in this perfect little town.
Gracyn is my friend, my neighbor. My classmate and confidante. And someday, she’s going to be my wife. She just doesn’t know it yet.
I’ve sat for too long, and my phone is blowing up, so I leave it on the passenger seat as I get out of my vehicle and gently close the door. The edgy feeling grows as I stand staring at Gracyn’s home.
“Peter Sitwell next door got married. He’s moving in his new wife and a stepdaughter next weekend,” my dad said, drinking his coffee at the kitchen bar years ago.
“I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend,” Mom responded, flipping a pancake I know is for me. She must not realize I’m so close, because next she says, “Hopefully this settles him down. All those women in and out at all hours.”
Dad made a commiserating sound, then said, “I know, honey, and they always seem too young for him. What's a man in his forties doing dating girls who barely look twenty?” He must have heard me then, because he cleared his throat and I never heard them say much else about Gracyn’s stepdad.
I walk around between the houses, checking for Gracyn in her usual spots.
She always seems to be hiding around our yards and avoiding the inside of her house.
I’ve never seen her bedroom, not in all the years we’ve been friends.
The urge to climb the oak and crawl through her window is sudden and strong.
I tamp it down and walk over to her house.
There’s a window here that looks into the living room. Her house has the same layout as mine. The window is cracked, and I slowly push it up. A slapping sound rings out so loudly that, for a moment, I think I broke something and stumble backward.
When nothing happens, I move close again, my heart pounding in my ears. Nadine Sitwell works swing shift in the ER. She never attends high school football games because she’s always working. Gracyn always goes by herself.
“Nghh,” the moaning grunt is loud. I hear a quiet whimper. It’s teary and wet-sounding, and my hackles rise. “Fuck, yeah, such a tight little pussy.”
My gorge rises as I recognize Peter Sitwell’s voice.
“No, no,” I whisper to myself. I move away, back, a force pushing me to run. This isn’t what I think it is. It’s a misunderstanding. I have the sudden urge to call my mom. To cry. To shatter the window with my fist.
I pace. Unsure. Maybe the TV was on. Maybe he’s jacking off at his computer. But where is Gracyn? And why hasn’t she texted me?
Maybe she has! This is all a mistake. Things like that don’t happen in middle-class suburbs.
They happen in trailer parks. At filthy parties of the ultra-rich.
Not on Larkin fucking Lane outside of Seattle.
I’m desperate for my phone. She probably fell asleep.
Or got in an accident, but she’s okay now.
She probably texted to congratulate me and offer to meet up.
My shirt feels damp with sweat by the time I reach through my passenger window and grab my phone. 76 text messages— 18 missed calls.
Not one from Gracyn.
The buzzing in my ears makes it feel like I’m in the center of a swarm of bees.
I move back to the open window. I climb into the Sitwell house.
I slip my feet out of my sliders and move stealthily through the familiar layout— the same as our house.
But our couch is over there against the opposite wall.
We have family photos all over our walls.
It’s full of patterns, warm, and full of life.
Gracyn’s house feels cold. The only thing on the kitchen bar is a spinning tray full of black tea packets, labeled by the days of the week.
Some brand Gracyn told me Peter insisted on buying ever since he did a semester of college in London.
Pretentious asshole. The rest of the rooms are dull monochrome with stark white walls that haven’t changed since before Gracyn and her mom moved in.
Low sobs make my hair stand on end. I blink away the redness because I know, deep down, I know, those hiccuping gasps are coming from Gracyn. My Gracyn.
Instinct tells me I have to pull out my phone and start recording.
Whatever is happening is bad. It’s bad, and I need proof of what my senses scream is happening.
Wetness threatens to blur my vision as images of Gracyn over the years flash before my eyes.
Her sweet youthful glow when she first arrived.
Then her clothing changed. She withdrew.
I thought it was just her finding herself and changing interests.
I’ve been so fucking stupid.
The office door is open and lamplit from within.
The scene doesn’t feel real at first. My eyes catch on a dirty old yellow word processor.
I’ve heard the clacking of keys a million times from the yard, but this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on the thing.
Gracyn always said he likes to write letters to pen pals.
My gaze drops, and it's like I’m watching a sepia-toned horror movie.
A revenge flick. Something that will end in female rage, an axe, a bloodbath. A nightmarish fantasy.
But this isn’t make-believe.
Gracyn is on all fours, her billowy oversized black t-shirt hanging, shifting.
Peter Sitwell, her stepfather, is kneeling behind her, her tan skin so smooth and unblemished under his bony hands.
He’s pumping into her smaller body. He’s slowly, almost reverently fucking his stepdaughter. I swallow back bile.
“You’re always so good for Daddy,” he groans, his head hanging and his closed eyes tilted up to the ceiling, “I was so stressed from work. This is exactly what I needed, my pretty little girl. You’ve always been so good to me. I know you love when Daddy slips inside you. Sweet thing.”
Gracyn is staring straight ahead sightlessly. It’s as if there’s no soul behind her eyes, even as tears drip and black mascara streaks her cheeks. She’s biting her lip, trying to silence the small sounds she makes whenever his body shoves against hers. He’s fucking insane.
And I have it all on camera.
I must make a noise then. I don’t know if I was going to rush him, swing on him, grab her— I don’t have a fucking plan.
But Gracyn jerks her head towards me and screams. It’s so high-pitched and sudden that it hits me like a bolt of lightning.
I can’t read her eyes; they’re a swirl of emotions, shock being the most visible.
When she tries to scramble away, Peter grabs her hips, cursing when he sees me. He lunges, his filthy, pale cock swinging as panic drips down his face, distorting his features.
“Hey! What the fuck! Get out of here!” he shouts, his face turning tomato red, his pale, receding hair standing stiff and bristly on the top of his head.
“Gracyn!” I gasp, finally coming to my senses. I reach a hand out to her, but she’s still screaming, tugging down her shirt. She’s like a panicked animal, kicking her feet. Sliding away from Peter, away from me.
“No!” she screams wildly, sounding nothing like herself, “Don’t look at me! Go away! Go away!”
I turn and run. The middle-aged tech company shill has nothing on me, and Peter’s shouts ping off my back as I dart through the house, desperate to get help.
My parents drive past the house later, but I stay in the car with Mom while Dad runs in to grab clothes for us. We’re going to stay in a hotel for the night. Flashing police lights turn our suburban street into something out of an LA crime drama.
The cops have the video. I went straight to the station, calling 911 on my way, and then my parents, who were there waiting by the time I arrived. Then I called Gracyn. I called her nonstop, hourly, for two days. That’s when her cell line was disconnected, and her social media accounts disappeared.
I tried the cops, crying, shouting, until they threatened to arrest me. My mom holding onto my back and sobbing was what finally calmed me down.
Gracyn Moreno isn’t eighteen. She is under her mother’s care and is safe. We cannot disclose any more information. If she wants to contact you, she will.
The school year ends. I graduate. I spend the summer staring at Peter Sitwell’s abandoned house.
Rumors flow about sex crimes. Pornography.
Child abuse. The FBI finds a group of pedophiles because of information hidden on his computers.
Multiple men across the country are charged, arrested, and make plea deals.
But Gracyn Moreno’s name is never mentioned. She is only referred to as Sitwell’s underage victim.
And Gracyn never contacts me.