1.

Amber stares at the knife block on the counter. There’s no escape. No matter where she hides—behind the sofa, under the desk, in the basement—he’ll find her. He always does.

Muffled voices at the front door send her into motion. The kitchen is dark. The only light comes from the garden lamps outside the window, casting cold shadows across the room. She hears the soft click of the front door unlocking. Light spills through the dark hallway. Then hushed giggles. Pressed against the kitchen island, Amber’s gaze falls on her father’s old armchair. He replaced it years ago, but in this place it will probably sit against that wall for all eternity.

Why is she here? She did draw his face the last time he was at the house… didn’t she?

The front door slams shut with a metallic clang. Amber flinches. Even after all these years, fear still holds her in its merciless grip. Her father doesn’t spare a single thought for the two-year-old girl upstairs in her crib. His attention belongs solely to the beautiful, young temptation in his arms. Elaine’s golden hair, usually tied back in a sleek braid, falls in loose waves over her shoulders tonight. Her father will lure her into his study and offer her a drink. Then he’ll seduce her. Amber’s mind scrambles for something solid. A fact. She finds one. She did not draw him.

The door to her father’s study opens, then closes again. She feels the weight of the knife in her hand, trembling, wondering when exactly she pulled it from the knife block. The blade gleams coldly in the dim light.

Why wait? The element of surprise is still hers.

All the damage her father has caused, especially to her mother’s soul, driving the knife into his back would be… what? Justice? She swallows hard, her grip faltering. For a moment, the knife nearly slips from her fingers, her heart hammering in her chest. She almost surrenders to the moment, resigning herself to what’s about to happen. Like she has so many times before.

But then faint laughter from her father’s study tightens her chest. Ice cubes clink. He’ll refill Elaine’s glass one more time. This has to end, and if it takes a knife to do it, then so be it.

She’s so tired of dying in this place.

Amber steps into the hallway, gripping the knife with both hands. Murmurs seep from behind the study door, punctuated by her father’s voice, drawling Elaine’s name.

She edges forward. Before she can touch the handle, the door flies open. Her father stands in the doorway, his unbuckled belt swinging like a whip at his side. Behind him, Elaine drops her glass. Fine champagne spills across her white underwear, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her gaze is fixed on the knife in Amber’s hand. Elaine must be around thirty now, but in this dark place, she’s forever a delicate eighteen. Beautiful and terrified.

Harlan is already closing the distance when Amber finally raises the knife. You don’t belong here, he’ll roar at her any second now. If only she had a choice. Anything would be better than being forced to endure this.

“Dad, please,” she begs, backing away.

It’s the wrong move. He’s fast. The knife clatters against the wall. Pain explodes in her jaw as his flat hand connects. Black spots bloom in her vision. His fingers clamp around her throat—icy chains tightening, unrelenting. Amber struggles to pull away. It’s useless. He puts all his weight on her, forcing her to the ground. He grins, triumphant. He knows he’s won. Amber claws at his face, gasping for air, fighting with everything she has left. His grip only tightens.

Then he roars: “You don’t belong here!”

Amber closes her eyes. Something in her throat cracks. The last seconds are always the worst.