Silenced Read online

  Silenced

  Leddy Harper

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Leddy’s Notes

  Hey You!!

  About the Author

  Also by Leddy Harper

  Copyright © 2017 by Leddy Harper

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  My ASA Girls

  Prologue

  Killian–age 8

  I hated school nights. Mom always made me go to bed early, even though I wasn’t tired at eight o’clock. She said I needed to get sleep so I could focus in class, but it didn’t matter how many hours of sleep I got, I could never pay attention the way all the other kids did. My teacher complained because I’d spend too much time doodling on my paper instead of doing the work.

  Mom would get frustrated with me.

  Dad would lose his patience.

  But I couldn’t help it.

  I remembered everything I saw, like a picture in my head.

  Sometimes I’d draw the milk carton, the one that always sat on the top shelf in the fridge. Next to it, the bottle of wine my mom used to cook with and a two-liter bottle of seltzer water. I’d add the labels exactly the way they were—sometimes turned, other times only the backs of the bottles showed. There were times I’d sit in front of a test, and instead of giving the answer, I’d draw the page of the textbook the information was on. I’d sketch the photo on the top right, and then add in squiggles beneath it, where I knew the answer was, but I couldn’t remember the words.

  The school counselor said I had a photographic memory.

  I could physically see it in my mind, but rather than the information, I was left with images.

  They tried pills.

  Therapy.

  Art classes.

  Nothing worked.

  Medicine made me feel weird. Mom told them I acted like a zombie. I was given several different prescriptions—again, nothing worked. One of them made me even more aware of my surroundings, adding more images to my mind I had to get out with a pencil and paper. The day I drew my mother’s jewelry box, exactly the way she had it with every ring, necklace, earring perfectly in place, she stopped giving me the pills.

  I’d only seen her jewelry box once.

  She said it wasn’t working.

  Now she made me go to bed earlier, hoping more sleep would help.

  But all I did was lie awake and stare at the ceiling. The muffled vibrations of the TV hummed through the wall. I pretended I knew what they were watching and created the entire movie in my head. Tonight, my parents were quiet, so I knew it must’ve been a movie about bad guys. Those never scared me, even though Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me watch them.

  When the house went quiet, I turned to the digital clock on my nightstand. The red numbers told me it was just after ten. I’d laid there for two hours when I could’ve been drawing. Or reading. Or watching TV.

  I closed my eyes and pictured the container of Legos in my closet. They sat on the top shelf right next to a barrel of Lincoln Logs. My clothes hung beneath them, organized by school clothes first, by color, and then my nicer clothes for church. Everything else was folded neatly in my dresser. Thinking of those, I pictured each drawer, each T-shirt and pair of shorts. I conjured an image of my Transformers shirt—the one with the mustard stain near the collar. Mom had wanted to throw it away, but I wouldn’t let her. I loved that shirt, and the stain reminded me of the birthday party I’d gone to and the hot dog I ate as I sat next to Lily.

  Lily Rose—her real name was Lily Abernathy, but I called her Lily Rose. Because she was beautiful, and the first time I ever saw her, she wore red earrings in the shape of a flower. Whenever I called her that, she’d blush, and it made me smile.

  My lips curled. With my eyes closed and the entire house quiet, I pictured her in my head. That’s when I turned off my brain and allowed myself to succumb to the daydreams of Lily. Of me going to school the next day and giving her one of my mom’s flowers from the garden.

  But just as my body grew heavy and my mind got lost in thoughts of sitting next to the prettiest girl in class while sharing my sandwich at lunch, something pulled me out of it. My eyes flashed open and my forehead ached with tightness as I lay still enough to make out what sound I’d heard. My chest felt tight, like someone sat on it, but my heart hammered away. Pressure grew between my ears until it thumped along with my heart, faster and faster, louder, angrier.

  And then I heard it again.

  A thud, muted by my closed door.

  A creak from the stairs, followed by what I could only describe as air leaking out of a tire.

  I lay still, frightened, my entire body trembling.

  It’s just Mom going to the kitchen.

  But I knew that was a lie. Mom never went downstairs after she went to bed. She never left her room once the lights were off. And as soon as I heard their door slowly creak open from down the hall, I was certain it wasn’t my parents.

  I glanced at the clock again.

  Eleven twenty-one.

  I’d heard them close their door over an hour ago.

  They never opened it again.

  Someone is in my house.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the blanket over my head. No matter what I tried to think about, I couldn’t stop imagining someone breaking in. The bad guys from the movie I’d thought about earlier were back, and they were coming for me.

  A muffled scream made my breath catch in my chest.

  The sound of something heavy hitting the floor made my skin burn.

  And then I heard my name.

  “Killian!”

  It was my mom, but it didn’t sound like her. Her voice was sharp, yet deep. Not quite as deep as Dad’s grumbling tone, but like her voice box had been swallowed up by her throat. I knew what that felt like, because it happened to me every time I got scared by a bad dream and cried out for help.

  I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. My legs shook like a leaf in a storm while I stared at my closed door, waiting to hear my name again. Fear coursed through my veins and set my skin on fire. It accelerated my heartbeat and silenced my cries.

  I fisted my hands at my sides as I tried to convince myself I’d made it all up. The house made sounds all the time. Sometimes, noises from outside seemed like they came from inside. But before I could accept that theory, I began to imagine something worse.

  I’d heard something heavy fall to the floor, the echo still resounding in my head. In my mind, my dad could’ve fallen off the bed. Maybe he’d had a heart attack like Grandpa, or rolled off and hit his head on the table next to him, the corner catching the tender part on the side. And my mom had called ou
t for me because she needed my help.

  I ran to the door and swung it open, not thinking twice about running to them. My dad was hurt and needed me. My mom was panicked, and I needed to be the man she always said I would become. I flew the few feet down the dark hallway and pushed their door all the way open, not coming to a stop until I was completely inside.

  Invisible concrete weighted down my feet and kept me from fleeing.

  Imaginary cotton filled my throat, preventing me from screaming.

  My eyes were held wide open by sticks that didn’t exist.

  And in front of me was a scene so unreal it was unfathomable.

  A scene I’d never forget.

  A scene that would haunt me forever…

  One

  Rylee

  Sweat dripped down the side of my face, collecting in the collar of my shirt. The heat was almost unbearable, but I didn’t want to be inside. Mom was away for work again—this time for a full week—and Dad was stuck in front of the television set watching another football game. I hated it when Mom was gone, because my dad didn’t really know how to handle me. He had no problem bonding with my brother, but where I was concerned, he acted completely clueless. So Sundays became the day I’d take a book and sit in the back yard beneath a tree.

  I brought my water bottle to my lips when something caught my attention near the privacy fence, separating the houses in the neighborhood and the wooded area behind it. It ran up the side yard, offering us seclusion to the house next door. The young woman who lived there often had guests over, which made my parents uneasy. But now, someone was in her back yard, climbing her fence.

  No…not just someone.

  A boy.

  His stick-straight hair, the color of sand, hung to the middle of his ears. But I couldn’t see his face. He had his back to me as he climbed, just before jumping over to the side filled with trees. His black T-shirt was a blur. He was there one second and gone the next.

  I stared at the barrier, wondering if I could climb over and follow him. I knew everyone in the neighborhood, but I’d never seen him before. I glanced over my shoulder and waited a moment, just to make sure my dad or my brother weren’t on their way out. When I noticed no movement beyond the sliding glass door, I jumped up and ran as fast as I could. Without second guessing it, I began to scale the tall slats of wood.

  Once I made it to the top, I looked down and realized it was much higher on the other side. I’d never been in the wooded area before, and for a second, I contemplated just going back to my yard. I thought about my book I’d left beneath the tree and my father who might’ve gone looking for me. But then I remembered the boy—and I so desperately wanted to find out where he came from.

  Curiosity got the best of me.

  I swung my leg over and, with the pace of a sloth, I used the wood between the slats to lower myself to the ground. Standing on my feet again, I searched through the trees, hoping to spot the boy with blond hair and a black shirt.

  But he was nowhere.

  I carefully walked farther into the trees on the soft dirt, keeping as quiet as possible. I didn’t want to venture too far, because I worried I wouldn’t be able to make it back to my house. From this side, I couldn’t tell which house was which. So I made sure not to deviate too far from behind my back yard.

  It felt like an hour, but realistically, it was probably closer to five minutes before I decided to give up. I thought it might’ve been better to have just waited until he came back. I turned around, ready to head home, when I spotted him.

  Or…he spotted me.

  He stood maybe fifteen feet away, staring at me. The first thing I noticed were his eyes—seafoam green, my favorite color, which I had my entire room decorated in it—locked on me, holding my gaze captive. I couldn’t look anywhere else but into his intense, almost worried stare. It was as if he’d been caught doing something wrong—or criminal even.

  I glanced over my shoulder, making sure there wasn’t anyone else behind me. When I realized no one had followed us, no one had come looking for me, I faced him again, only to see he’d turned around. He sat down in the packed dirt, his back arched forward, shoulders slumped. His long hair hung in front of him, and I noticed the back of his head, beneath the veil of sandy-blond locks, was buzzed close to his scalp. I’d seen kids with the same cut, but they were all older, closer to my brother’s age—sixteen. This boy didn’t look that old. However, he didn’t appear to be my age, either.

  My feet carried me toward him. His body grew stiff just before I sat down, but I ignored it. I bent my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around my shins, all while keeping my gaze on him. But he never looked my way. He sat with his legs crossed, his elbows on his knees, shoulders pulled up to his ears with his head down, his hair covering his face, like he didn’t want to be bothered. A notepad sat in his lap, a pen between his fingers, but he made no move to write anything. Just sat there in silence, pretending I wasn’t next to him.

  “My name is Rylee Anderson. What’s yours?” I asked with a shaky voice.

  His hand moved, and the next thing I knew, he held up the notebook, still refusing to look at me. On the blank page, in black ink, written in chicken scratch was the word, Killian. At first, all I saw was “kill” and my breathing almost stopped. But then I read it to myself a few times and realized it was his name.

  He had answered me.

  “Killian,” I said out loud, almost a whisper. It rolled off my tongue like a foreign language, one I’d never spoken before, yet it came out so effortlessly. “That’s a really cool name. How old are you?” Again, he scribbled something on the paper, his face still hidden from sight. When he held the notebook back up, I realized he had answered me again. “Eleven? You’re only a year older than me.” Excitement took hold of my chest, knowing there was a kid around my age nearby. “What grade are you in?”

  That time, he didn’t bother writing anything down, and instead, shrugged his slouched shoulders.

  “You don’t know? Do you go to school?”

  Tutor.

  “Oh. That’s cool. I wish I had a tutor. I don’t like going to school.” Silence fell upon us, which prompted me to ask another question. It didn’t take long to understand he wasn’t a conversationalist, but it seemed he had no problems answering when asked something. “Do you live around here?”

  He grew so still I wondered if he’d stopped breathing. But then he glanced over his shoulder, away from me, and pointed through the trees. I studied the line of the fence, thinking about which direction I’d gone. When I realized he had pointed in the vicinity of my house, I took a guess and assumed he’d meant my neighbor’s house, the woman who always had people over.

  “Ms. Newberry’s house?”

  He nodded and went back to staring at his notepad.

  “Are you just visiting?”

  His hair swayed as he shook his head.

  “You’re living with her? Is she a relative?” I didn’t recall her having any children, and if she did, they had never come over before, let alone ever lived with her. I knew for a fact I’d never seen Killian over there before.

  He nodded, but didn’t offer any other explanation.

  I paused, wondering if I’d overstepped by following him out here. He wasn’t speaking to me, and it seemed he didn’t want to look my way. But I wasn’t a sensitive person afraid of meeting new people. Sometimes I ended up making friends. Other times, they wanted nothing to do with me and I’d move on to someone else. I wasn’t about to give up on Killian until he told me to leave.

  “Are you shy? Or do you just not like to talk?”

  Can’t.

  I stared at his messy writing, studied the way he crossed his T, the line long and drawn out. When he pulled his notebook back into his lap, it broke the spell and brought me back to his answer. “You can’t talk? Do you know sign language?”

  I stared at the paper, willing him to answer me, but instead of writing anything, he turned his head toward me. I gl
anced up, mesmerized by his eyes once again. They shone like a beacon of light, the pale green mixed with just a hint of blue. I started to smile at the sight, but as soon as I began to take in the rest of his features, wanting to memorize them all, I gasped and covered my open mouth with the tips of my fingers.

  He immediately turned away and closed in on himself once more.

  Go away.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Please, look at me again.”

  No.

  I made no move to leave. Instead, I shifted in the dirt beneath my butt and leaned closer to him. I opened my mouth to say something but was stopped just shy of getting my first word out. His hand moved fast, the pen scratching furiously against the paper.

  Do I scare you?

  “No,” I whispered, telling the absolute truth. I may have overreacted, but he didn’t scare me. “I was surprised. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  Slowly, he lifted his face, his eyes meeting mine. I carefully scanned his features, taking in his straight and narrow nose, his nostrils prominent only when they flared. His top lip was thin with a deep V in the middle, the bottom plumper and glossy from where it appeared he’d licked it before turning to face me.

  I’d never seen a boy so pretty before.

  What had caused me to gasp before were the scars on his cheeks. They started at the corners of his mouth and extended toward his jaw about two inches on either side, creating the illusion of a smile.

  My fingers reached up, almost on their own accord, until his hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled it away. His eyes flickered between mine, and then briefly dropped to my mouth before looking away. However, he didn’t let go of my wrist. He looped my arm beneath his, where he held my hand in his lap, on top of his notebook.

  “Is that why you can’t talk?” My voice came out hoarse, sounding like I’d somehow caught a cold in the last ten seconds. When he nodded, I felt the need to ask another question, to prod him for another answer. “When did that happen?”