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EVA STARED UP AT THE HOUSE—heart pounding with anxiety.
What would she be faced with? Her parents were home, surely awake, because they never slept during the nighttime. Entering and escaping unnoticed was a slim possibility; her parents hardly missed a thing.
If she had to take a beating, so be it. Maybe then she would feel something.
Finally Eva pushed forward, forced her stiff limbs onward, and she entered the house—the door was left unlocked, naturally. She paused at the threshold, fingers wrapped tightly around the doorknob, in case she needed to make a quick escape.
After a moment, she decided that the first level of the house was silent, and she closed the door behind herself. The click was soft and sure.
Eva moved on the tips of her toes, putting forth quite an effort to make absolutely no noise. And she was successful until, of course, she reached the staircase. Midway up, the moment she put her weight down, a loud creak sliced through the silence. Eva froze, and waited...Nobody came.
So she continued forward, careful to try her weight on each step now. She made it upstairs with minimal noise—but that hadn't mattered.
Just as Eva's hand closed around the knob of her bedroom door, she felt something hard press into the middle of her spine. Again she froze like a statue.
"Evangeline."
Mr. Healy. The ice is in voice was strangely reminiscent to Eva's. Now she understood where she had learned it.
"Dad," Eva spoke, her voice low and calm. "I'm sorry for what I said before. Please don't shoot me."
It wasn't the first time Eva had felt the gun pressed against her back. The very same. And yes—Mr. Healy would use it on her if she didn't play her cards right.
"What are you doing here?" Mr. Healy demanded. "What are you doing in my house? I think you've outstayed your welcome."
Outstayed your welcome. Eva wanted to shoot back—to remind her father that this was her house, too. Even if she no longer stayed here, this was where she belonged. She did not deserve the Gallaghers.
"What, you got nothing to say?" Mr. Healy spat. "Answer me, bitch." He pressed the hard object into her spine with more force—she could feel small cracks in her back, although that would have felt good under normal circumstances.
