CHAPTER 4
I’m not who he thinks I am, but no matter how hard I cry, how fiercely or angrily I protest, he doesn’t listen to me. Doesn’t believe me.
“Jennifer,” he says, “you know how angry I get when you’re like this.”
“My name isn’t Jennifer.” It doesn’t matter if I scream it at him, if I curse and swear, if I break down into tears and beg him to believe me.
“Come on, Jennifer,” he says. “Stop pretending like you don’t know your own dad and come here.”
I hate him. I hate him. My loathing is the only source of willpower it takes to stay alive down here, trapped in this basement. If I were any weaker, I know I would have died by now.
My survival depends on one thing and one thing only. The hope that one day he’ll forget to bind me up the right way. That I’ll find some kind of weapon i
