Fractured Heart

Chapter 1

I tighten my grip on the scrub brush and attack the bathroom floor. The lemon-scented cleaner burns my nose and stinks up my hair and clothes. My hands throb, my back aches, and I sympathize with Cinderella. Not that I've got a wicked stepmother or awful step-sisters—just Father.

I may not have Cinderella's little animals to help me clean, either, but the acoustics in the tiny bathroom are amazing. My voice sounds deeper and more resonant, and I lose myself in the magic of music as I sing.

"Roonie Hill!" Father's angry voice thunders across the house, jolting me back to reality. "You stop that racket and get downstairs. Now!"

I flinch.

The scrub blush clatters to the floor as I jump to my feet. My onyx pendant smacks against my collarbone, and I squeeze the cold, heart-shaped stone as my own heart pounds wildly in my chest.

Why is Father home so early? He doesn't get back on Fridays until—I glance at my phone, which I left by the sink—eight o'clock!

The blood drains from my face. I should have had dinner ready for him ten minutes ago. I should be in the kitchen, ladle in hand. I should not, under any circumstances, still be upstairs. And I definitely should not be singing.

"Roonie!" Father bellows.

I break into a run. I don't have time to wash my hands, so I wipe my dirty palms on my jeans as I skid to a stop in the kitchen doorway.

Father is seated at the table in his sweaty, gray Bulldogs hoodie and navy-blue sweatpants. He takes one look at me and scowls. "You're a mess. A filthy mess."

He's right!

My faded pink sweater is drenched in sweat, and my jeans are torn and dirty from cleaning. What if we'd had company? Or Prince Charming finally decided to rescue me? It's not like my Fairy Godmother's suddenly going to pop up with a gown and slippers.

"I'm hungry, Roonie." Father takes a healthy swig of beer and slams the bottle on the table.

I flinch. My palms start to sweat.

Why doesn't he ever get up and serve himself? I left an empty bowl on the table and the stew is simmering on the stove. Its delicious aroma fills the kitchen and makes my mouth water. I haven't eaten all day.

I stare down at my feet. "I'm really sorry, Father. I didn't mean—"

"Didn't mean... didn't mean..." he mocks. "Why am I not eating?"

I can think of several reasons, none of which I dare voice aloud. I snatch up his empty bowl, not missing his narrowed eyes or the frown lines marring his forehead. Those, coupled with the glazed look in his eyes, make my stomach roll.

I grab the metal lid covering the pot of stew and let go with a yelp. Too hot. Too hot. Too hot!

The lid crashes back down onto the pot with a loud clang that echoes through the kitchen.

"You can't do anything right!" Father shouts as I cradle my burned palm against my chest. "You're a mess. Never got into college. Can't even get a job."

I fight back tears. Crying will only make things worse, but I can barely think through the pain.

"You're wasting your time making up stupid songs." Father chugs down some beer and gestures at me with the bottle. "Where's my dinner?"

I try to ignore the sting from my burnt palm—and his constant criticism—as I grab a towel. I use it to lift the scalding-hot lid off the pot. Steam rolls out and hits me in the face, but I don't dare react. A single sound could set Father off again.