What She Left Behind
Read What She Left Behind Online
Authors: Tracy Bilen
Tags: #Mystery, #Young Adult, #Contemporary, #Thriller
“Don’t even think of leaving. . . .
I will find you,” he whispered.“Guaranteed.”
Sara and her mom have a plan to finally escape
Sara’s abusive father. But when her mom doesn’t show up as expected, Sara’s terrified. Her father says that she’s on a business trip, but Sara knows he’s lying. Her mom is missing—and her dad had something to do with it.
With each day that passes, Sara’s more on edge. Her friends know that something’s wrong, but she won’t endanger anyone else with her secret. And with her dad growing increasingly violent, Sara must figure out what happened to her mom before it’s too late … for them both.
SIMON PULSE
Simon & Schuster, New York
Cover designed by Jessica Handelman
Cover photographs copyright © 2012
by Jan Mammey/TOCK4B/Getty (girl)
and copyright © 2012 by Mika/Corbis (trees)
Ages 14 up
0512
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What She Left Behind
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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www.SimonandSchuster.com
First Simon Pulse paperback edition May 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Tracy Bilen
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bilen, Tracy.
What she left behind / Tracy Bilen. — 1st Simon Pulse pbk. ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Sara’s mother goes missing before she and Sara can move to a new town to escape Sara’s physically abusive father.
ISBN 978-1-4424-3951-1
[1. Family violence—Fiction. 2. Fathers—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B4924Wh 201 [Fic]—dc23 2011028989
ISBN 978-1-4424-3952-8 (eBook)
What She Left Behind
I
sometimes have this dream that I’m drowning in a giant bowl of oatmeal. That’s how I feel when I’m at home. When I’m at school, it’s different. I hang out with Zach, sneak Ritz Bits crackers during class, and read horror novels in history. I like horror because it puts things in perspective. I mean, at least I’m not being chased by killer bees and no one’s trying to hack off my arm.
First period is band. Right now it’s marching season, which sucks because it’s all about football. I hate football. Usually I stuff a copy of
Soap Opera Digest
between my uniform and my real clothes so I have something to do between the pregame and halftime shows.
What I really like is concert season. That’s when I get to trade in my big, clunky, ordinary clarinet for my E-flat clarinet. Matt—that’s my brother—used to call it the “shrunken clarinet,” as if I had left it in the dryer too long.
I’m playing my shrunken clarinet in the living room, trying to chase away that oatmeal-dream feeling, when my mom comes in and stands right next to me. “Sara, we have to go,” she whispers, even though my dad isn’t there to hear her. She’s not crying. She’s calm. Matter-of-fact. As if she’s asking me whether I want mayo or mustard on my sandwich. Except in secret.
I know it’s time to go. I’ve known for a long time.
“You must think I’m an idiot for not getting us out of here sooner.”
“It’s okay,” I say. I twirl my ponytail, like you do to turn off the faucet when the hose is spraying all over you. I do that when I’m nervous. Or lying. Or both. “I’ll go get my things.” I open the case and put away my clarinet.
“We’ll leave at lunch tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at the Dairy Dream.”
Tomorrow?
When you decide to do something, you should just do it. Otherwise you might change your mind. Especially if you’re my mom.
“Don’t pack a lot. Just your duffel bag.”
One bag? How do you put a whole life in one bag?
“Leave it under your bed. I’ll stop and get it just before I come pick you up.”
That’s it? This is Mom’s plan?
“Hurry. Before he gets home.”
On your marks, get set …
“Sara, we have to be careful. Your dad said—”
“Can’t we talk later? Like, tomorrow in the car?” I know what she wants to tell me. She forgets I was there.
We were in the living room. Dad was reading a book about the history of polio. He always reads nonfiction. I was at the piano, playing a song called
Wildfire by ear and trying to remember the words. My mom was dusting. She knocked a book off a shelf and it hit the ground with a loud bang. Like a gunshot.
“What Matt did is your fault,” my dad said, slamming his book shut. “And don’t you ever forget it!”
I stopped playing. Before I took my next breath, he was across the room. Dad cupped his hand around Mom’s throat and slammed her head into the wall.
Thump!
Mom didn’t fight back. She never did. The worst part is, she didn’t look afraid. She just looked empty.
I stared, like always. A tree in the Petrified Forest. I looked down at my hands and feet and ordered them to move, only they wouldn’t.
Please don’t let her die. Please, Matt, tell God to let her live.
“Don’t even
think
of leaving.”
Slam!
The wall again. “Do you hear me? Don’t even
think
of it. I won’t have people saying, ‘You know that Ray guy? Heard what his son did? Yeah, well, his wife left him too.”
Let her go, let her go!
my voice said inside me, only my mouth wouldn’t open so the words couldn’t get out.
Dad wrapped one hand around her chin and forced her to look at him. “I will find you,” he whispered. “Guaranteed.”
He let go of her and took the Statue of Liberty figurine that we got a long time ago on vacation off the shelf. He threw it against the wall, next to Mom’s face. It shattered on impact.
Later I picked up the big pieces and vacuumed up the rest. Dad was back to reading. He smiled sweetly as if nothing had happened. “Thanks, Sara. You always know the right thing to do without being asked.”
