Veronique froze for a half-second. Her hand went to the pocket of her hoodie, where she had a crumpled letter from her little brother—the only family she had left, who Meadows had forbidden her from calling. The memory of that cruelty solidified her spine.
Alexis dug into her duffel bag and pulled out a crumpled photograph. It was of a woman who looked like her, but older, sadder. Her mother, before the drugs, before the disappearances. Alexis kissed the photo and tucked it back. Veronique froze for a half-second
She wasn’t being dramatic. The group home on Mulholland Drive had been a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. Alexis had aged out of the foster system six months ago, only to find herself shuffled into a “transitional living” facility run by a woman named Meadows. Lindsey Meadows had the smile of a televangelist and the cold, calculating eyes of a loan shark. She took their government checks, skimmed their meager paychecks from the warehouse jobs she forced them to take, and called it “life skills training.” Alexis dug into her duffel bag and pulled
“Last chance to back out,” Veronique murmured, her breath a ghost in the air. Alexis kissed the photo and tucked it back
Lindsey Meadows stood at the edge of the parking lot, her pink bathrobe flapping in the wind, her dyed-blonde hair a wet mop on her head. She looked less like a predator and more like a furious, wet cat. Behind her, Dwayne’s truck’s headlights blazed.