Part Five

Lane rolled down the passenger-seat window, listening to the wind as it whistled a frostbitten melody. Fallen tree bark crumbled in the leaves spread along the edge of the road. Lane imagined that spiders and ladybugs and all other sorts of disgusting insects were probably hiding, nestling themselves somewhere between all the displaced, rustling twigs.

She glanced at her mother as she drove. Elizabeth Martin's eyes were stony and unflinching. The sallow, lemony locks she called hair were a far cry from Lane's creamy vanilla blond—especially today, of all days.

On a different Monday morning, Lane would have protested such an early waking, but today she had risen before her alarm. Knowing that any other twelve-year-old girl would likely be terrified, Lane had refused.

Instead, she had traipsed whimsically to her bathroom. She had grabbed the fruitiest bottle of body wash she owned and stepped into her shower, lathering up and sprinkling herself in delightful warmth as steamy clouds rose and fogged her mirror. She'd hummed as she lavished on her make up, drawing sparkling gold liner across her lids as a final touch. She had taken a seat on the foot of her bed, then run her pretty pink hairbrush along her hair's luscious waves a thousand times before Elizabeth finally came to her room to tell her it was time to leave.

Lane had tossed her hair nonchalantly before stuffing her hairbrush into the last of her suitcases and sealing it shut. She had followed her mother outside, climbed into the passenger's seat without a word.

It was 7:09 a.m. when Lane and Elizabeth made it to Molding the Way Sanitarium and Correctional Facility.

Lane glanced at her mother again. This is so freaking ridiculous, she thought. But screw her. And screw this entire ball-sucking school! She kept her lips in a thin and indifferent frown as she unlocked the passenger door and stepped out onto the parking lot's uneven asphalt.

Elizabeth looked up at her but stayed seated in the car.

"Coming, Mom?" Lane asked with a trill. "Pretty sure they're gonna want a parent or legal guardian to sign me in." She placed a braceleted hand on her hip and twisted her head sideways so her hair would sway with the wind.

"I already called ahead," Elizabeth answered back lowly. "I gave my consent to your becoming a ward of Molding the Way."

"What the!?—Mom, what does that even mean?"

"It means that you can carry those suitcases yourself, and it means I won't be going into that building with you. I'm sure you're familiar with how to work a door, and I'd rather not start off my day walking hand-in-hand with an airheaded, unrepentant delinquent."

Lane's jaw dropped wide open. "WHAT!? Mom, are you freaking kidding me? There's no way you can just—!"

"What's done is done, Lane," Elizabeth fired back. "And believe me—it is done." She pressed a button on her keys, and the trunk popped open.

Lane was speechless. This was impossible, truly and utterly impossible. Lane stood frozen under the icy morning, unable to believe her mother was honestly abandoning her.

"Fine," Lane managed at last, sauntering to open the trunk and retrieve her belongings. Once she'd dragged out the suitcases and draped her shoe bag's sash over her shoulder, Lane sashayed back to the front of the car and slammed the passenger door shut in rage.

Elizabeth blinked, unbothered, and the sound of the engine roared in Lane's face. Lane stomped her foot as her mother departed the parking lot, her lips arching into an angry scowl as she avoided a puff of exhaust fumes. She stood there and waited in the cold, watched as her mother drove away under the early morning brightness, free at last from her most dreadful child.

Lane stuck up her nose and spun around, clutching two of her suitcases with her hands. Even with her shoe bag strapped across her shoulder, Lane knew she'd have to make two trips, so she opted to go inside first and at least get settled into a room before being reduced to manual labor.

When she walked inside the building, there was a boy with cute, dirty-blond hair sitting behind the front desk staring at a computer. The moment he glanced up at her, he smiled.

"You must be Audrey, the new secretary." He reached out his hand to shake hers.

"No..." she puzzled, "I'm Lane." Secretary? Do I look like I'm forty years old?

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Lane Martin?" she continued. "My mom called earlier? Probably complained about me being a problem child or some bull crap like that."

"Oh, um...sorry, I don't know anything about anyone named Lane...I just know there's a secretary named Audrey who's supposed to start working today. My dad's having me fill in for her until she gets here."

"Your dad? What, does he own Molding the Way or something?"

"Yeah, you could say that," the darkly blond boy replied. "And he owns the rest of EdgeWay too."

Lane gasped. "Wait, your dad is—?"

"Lane Martin," came that heavy and familiar pastoral voice.

A sigh pressed through Lane's lips as she turned to face Marcus Hall.

"I see you've met my son Cameron," he spoke, staring down at her as he walked across the lobby area to meet Lane at the reception desk.

"Wow," Lane answered, tilting her head. "Nothing gets past you, Mark."

"That's Reverend Hall to you, Miss Martin," he folded his arms across his chest. "And I must congratulate you on arriving so early. Principal Rodley has told me that's a rare occurrence indeed."

"Shouldn't believe everything you hear," Lane fired back. "Now, can we cut the crap and skip to the part where you show me where I'm gonna be staying? I was told I get a room with a bed, a window, and no roommate. And if I'm being honest, you're boring me to tears and I could really use some shut-eye."

He grinned and shook his head lightly. "Very well, Miss Martin. Your room is right this way."

Lane followed Marcus down a thin hallway with plaster-colored walls and hard-tiled floors. The doors to each room were a sloppy off-yellow color, and the wood on several of them was slightly splintered in places. The overhead lights were dully white, some illuminating brown spots in their bulbs from where bugs had managed to crawl inside them but failed to escape.

Lane's room was four doors down from the end of the hallway, and its door was widely ajar when she made it there.

Inside was a bed with a single, off-colored mattress sporting faded spots all across the top. A circular nightstand barely larger in diameter than a throw pillow was next to the bed, and a lamp with a gray base sat solitarily upon an adjacent desk.

"Wowwww," Lane drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's like Taj Mahal in here. Better strap some cow bells to my ankles in case I get lost." She rolled her eyes, then walked over to the bed and set her belongings down on the floor.

She turned back to the door and headed for it, pushing past Marcus.

He grabbed her arm. "And just where do you think you're g—?"

"To get the rest of my stuff," she cut him off. "It's outside, and my mom ditched me, so I guess that means I get to carry it all by myself. Now hands off!" She snatched her arm from within his grasp and placed it on her hip, glaring at him before striding back up the hallway and toward the lobby.

Lane cast a single glance at the receptionist boy and then kept walking past the front desk, headed for the parking lot.

"Hey, Lane!" he called from the desk.

She huffed and turned around. "What?"

He looked down, avoided her eyes. "I was...um, I was just gonna say I can carry your suitcases in if—if you want."

She turned away and kept walking. "No thanks," she shot back over her shoulder. "I think I've got it covered."

"Hey, wait, come on!"

Lane heard footsteps, quick ones. That dirty-blond ditz was running after her.

And in mere seconds, he'd caught up.

Lane whipped her head in his direction, exasperation written all over her face. "Seriously!?" she screamed.

"I just—let me help, okay?" he begged.

Lane rolled her eyes. "Fine!" She shoved open the double doors and stormed to where she'd left her two remaining suitcases and a pearly pink duffel bag standing on the asphalt.

"This is the rest of it, Cameron," Lane said sarcastically. "Think you can handle th—"

"Absolutely!" He darted forward like a monkey chasing a banana and gathered up both suitcases in a flash, then breezily grabbed the duffel bag and strapped it around his left shoulder. "And, uh, you can call me Cam, by the way."

Lane rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Let's just get inside before I freeze my butt off out here."

****

Once Lane'd finally managed to shoo Cam out of her bedroom after he dropped off her stuff, she locked the door and unzipped the first of her suitcases in search of bedding. As she retrieved the velvety pink sheets she'd folded somberly the night before, Lane sighed in agitation. She glanced at the mattress, that dingy pile of nylon tackiness that was now hers.

Hers. She couldn't believe it—couldn't believe that her own mother had thrown her in some asylum.

"She's not my mother," Lane mused to herself. "She's not even a mom."

Lane draped her sheets across the mattress and unfolded her satin blanket atop them. She fluffed and placed her two pillows from home at the head of the comforter, then grabbed a bottle of Lizoëlla fragrance spray from her purse to spritz the sheets and pillowcase. She sniffed and smiled at the scent; it was pretty, so very pretty.

After stroking her hand through her hair once, Lane slipped off her shoes and sat on the bed, curving her legs underneath her. She swiveled her gaze throughout the room, noticing for the first time a micro alarm clock on the nightstand.

Seeing that it was 7:46, Lane turned her eyes to the room's only window, which was covered with thin gray blinds. A few more moments passed, and the clock ticked to 7:47.

Finally, just as Lane considered going to the front desk and asking Cam to adjust the air conditioner, a knock sounded at the window.

Lane bounced from the bed and ran to pull up the blinds. "About time you got here, GiGi!" her voice dragged.

"Sorry, Lane," she pressed, ditching her bike behind an array of shrubs. "I literally had to sneak past both my parents to get out. Irina almost heard me."

"Well," Lane offered, lowering her voice, "I'm glad you made it." She twisted the lock on the window and slid up the bottom half, allowing GiGi to crawl in along with a breeze of shivering wind.

"This is your room?" GiGi wrinkled her nose as Lane shut the window. "Lane, this is unreal. They can't keep you in here!"

"They can if my mom says they can," Lane answered. "And she called this morning to give them the green light."

GiGi's eyes fell for a moment. "At least you're not rooming with anyone," she offered. "And I swear I'm coming here every day after school." She turned to the bed, where Lane's linen made the otherwise drab mattress pop and shine. GiGi sniffed the air. "Is that Lizoëlla?"

Lane smiled. "Um, of course it is, girl. Never leave home without it."

The two giggled, then strode leisurely over to take cross-legged seats on the bed as Lane reached inside her purse and retrieved the fragrance spray, lifting and wiggling it in the air.

"I have a feeling I might be needing this," she giggled.

"Wait, why?" GiGi puzzled.

"There's this boy at the front desk—"

"Ooh," GiGi cooed, "is he cute?"

"I guess," Lane said indifferently. "I mean, his eyes are cute, and his hair's not bad. But Sam Irish runs circles around him." She pulled the top off the Lizoëlla and squirted a stream of it on either side of her neck. "He carried my bags inside, and he was honestly soooo annoying. But he is Marcus Hall's son, and that means he probably has access to all the snacks..."

"Snacks? How do you even know they have—"

"It's Molding the Way, GiGi, not a prison cell. They have to have loads of snacks stashed away somewhere. And my guess is, Cameron the try-hard knows where they are."

GiGi grinned, then shook her head gently. "Lane, do you hear yourself? You're seriously gonna flirt with the pastor's son just to get free food out of him?"

"In a word, yes." Lane leaned over the edge of the bed and unzipped the side pocket on one of her suitcases. She pulled out her pink brush and started stroking her hair. "Besides, who knows? It may be just snacks today, but what if that loser falls so hard for me that he talks Marcus into letting me out of this disgusting crap hole?"

GiGi shook her head again. "Well, if anyone can do it, Lane, I know it's you." She smiled, then hugged Lane tightly.

Lane smiled back—really, really smiled.

"Oh, and before I forget," GiGi spoke up, "Sam asked about you on Thursday."

"Thursday!?" Lane shrieked.

"Yeah...isn't that a good thing?"

"Um, no. I've been suspended from school since last Monday, and he just noticed on Thursday!? Oh my gosh, GiGi. This is so awful!" Lane glanced around nervously. "Do you think if I got Cameron to fall in love with me, Sam would get jealous? Maybe then I could—"

"Lane, what the heck!?" GiGi laugh-screamed. "Sam misses you; isn't that what's important? He even said he wanted to come visit you."

Lane's eyes grew wide. "Oh, gosh. GiGi, he can't do that. No way can Sam Irish see me like this!"

"Relax. I told him I didn't think you were allowed to have visitors yet. Plus, Irina told me that Sam has basketball semi-finals coming up soon. And I'm guessing that means he won't be visiting anyone for a while."

Lane breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness."

GiGi giggled, then turned to look out the window again. "Um, Lane..." she began the moment she stared through the glass. "What's going on?" She pointed a single index finger, and Lane turned.

Directly in front of Molding the Way, a sleek black car was parked across a cracked patch of asphalt. Its tires had those thin spokes Lane'd seen a few times in old movies, and its windows were tinted a heavy black. The backseat door opened, and a thin woman with drapy blond hair and a short black skirt stood to her full height. She wore a leather purse that hung from her shoulder by a silver, chain-link strap, and a pearl necklace dangled around her throat.

"What the—?" Lane puzzled. "Why's some fancy street car pulling up at Molding the W—?"

But before she'd gotten her question out, she had her answer.

From across the lawn and sidewalk, she spotted Marcus Hall, walking to meet the mysterious blond woman in black. The woman extended her thin arms and embraced him the moment he made it to her, a brightly lipsticked smile painted on that powdery white face of hers.

"Oh my gosh," GiGi exhaled. "Lane, I think I know her."

Lane twisted to GiGi. "What?"

"Her name is Shelby. She introduced herself to me and my mom on Wednesday night at church."

Lane glanced back outside, watched as Marcus held open the door to the backseat for Shelby. As she folded her hands across her lap and Marcus prepared to shut the door, Lane spotted a single dark splotch just below the necklace of pearls Shelby was sporting.

"Oh. My. Gosh." Lane's head whipped left to face her best friend. "GiGi, look at that! Look at her neck!"

GiGi caught a glimpse just before the door to the street car shut, and what she saw made her jaw drop. "Lane, do you think those two are...oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! This is insane!"

"It's not that surprising," Lane laughed. "He's way too old, and she's way too pasty. It's a match made in hooker heaven."

GiGi smirked, a giggle escaping her lips.

"I mean, I know that girl probably thinks she's hot stuff since she crawled out of Spring 1987's edition of the Belk Red-Dot Discount Catalog, but someone should seriously tell her that sleeping with the power really sucks when the guy you're boning is so out of practice that his lifetime subscription to Viagra's expired."

GiGi burst out laughing. "You can say that again," she piped up between belting giggles. "It's kinda sad, honestly. He's EdgeWay's pastor, and he's chasing after some woman half his age? Am I the only one getting total Count Olaf vibes?"

It was Lane's turn to laugh hysterically. "Good one, GiGi," she snickered. "And if he's Olaf, then that definitely means that twisty tease with the hickey on her throat is Esme. Did you see those charcoal stilettos she was wearing? Paired with that ketchup-bottle lipstick, her wannabe slutty uniform was a series of unfortunate events."

GiGi let out another high-pitched laugh, this time falling back on the bed as she did. "You really are amazing, Lane Martin," she sighed. "I just can't believe everything's happening this way."

Lane was silent, her eyes darting away from GiGi as she splayed out on the bed.

"Oh!" GiGi exclaimed. "That reminds me: I brought you something!" She sprang up from the bed and ran over to the window, pushing it open. Her bike was right behind the shrubs where she'd left it, and so was the sparkly purse she'd tied to the handlebars.

In a single motion, GiGi grabbed the bejeweled bag and turned to rejoin Lane on the bed. Lane's eyes grew wide as GiGi unclasped the purse's top flap and dumped out its contents between them.

"This is a walkie talkie," GiGi announced, grasping the first item and handing it to Lane. "I figured they probably wouldn't let you have a phone in here, so I improvised." She grinned. "And don't worry about distance; I checked and made sure. Turns out my house is close enough to here that we can still get a signal."

Lane held the walkie talkie close to her chest. "GiGi, this is perfect!"

GiGi smiled, then grabbed the next item, a miniature photo album. "I also managed to get Ellie from the yearbook staff to give me all the photos they took of us at that first basketball game." She flipped to the middle of the album, showed Lane a picture of the two of them with wide eyes and glowing smiles. "Turns out those front-row seats really paid off."

Lane felt tears tugging at her eyeballs. "GiGi," she mused. "This is...beautiful." She took the album and started leafing through the pages.

"And I may've thrown a few...extra ones in there," GiGi added as Lane flipped to a picture of both girls holding a mega ice cream cone from Bayshell Creamery.

Lane batted her eyes as she finally closed the book, just in time for GiGi to pick up and unfold a sheet of notebook paper.

"And this," GiGi giggled. "This is a reminder." She handed Lane the page. "A reminder that no matter what, Lane Martin does not settle."

"Dear Lane:" More tears—this time, Lane had to squint to keep them at bay as she read. "Roses are red; violets are blue. If you were a booger, I'd pick you."

Any other day, she would have grimaced and hurled Dorian's refurbished love note in the trash. But instead, she smiled, she sniffled back sobs, and she hugged GiGi; she hugged her tighter than she'd ever hugged anyone else.

****

**TRIGGER WARNING** 

Disturbing content ahead, including violent kidnapping and abuse.

Lane was exhausted by the time the workers at Molding the Way had called for lights out. After GiGi left, the whole place just felt lonely and overwhelming, even with the hourly readings of Bible verses over the intercom, even with the clock radios in every room blasting Christian music, even with the eulogized breaks for lunch and dinner—breaks that seemed too late and too long to be of any real comfort.

Lane had slammed her door and locked it, then plopped lifelessly onto her bed. It was a small miracle that she was even able to wrap herself in sheets and drag her head up to the pillow before shutting her eyes. The darkness of the room was her only companion, and it sang her to sleep in its chilly silence.

Her mind flew to the ends of the earth, sailing through the night and between her memories—her mother, whose mindless certainty that her daughter deserved EdgeWay's every punishment was almost as repulsive as her crayon-yellow hair; Glenn Clather, whose unrelenting grip on Ruby that night had been freaky to the point of disbelief; Sam Irish, whose impossible good looks and boyish charm were as perfectly amazing as they were unobtainably tantalizing—dreams and memories brushed and bled into one another, oozing thought into threat and faces into fearfulness. Lane wanted to shut her eyes...but how, when she could see nothing already?

Slowly, unconsciously, her eyelids lifted in response to the most inaudible of thuds as it sounded at her door.

"GiGi...?" Lane mumbled from between her lips.

Another thud sounded, and this one louder than the first. Then a click—a key?—turning in a lock...the lock to Lane's room.

"Hello?" Lane's whisper barely reached her own ears. "Is there someone...are you...who are you?"

"She's probably fast asleep."

Lane's eyes shot open, the sound of that deep, horrible voice jolting her instantly to consciousness.

"Not for long," said a different voice, a deeper one.

Lane sat upright, grasping her sheets instinctively and reaching for the walkie talkie beside her bed. She gripped the antenna and pulled the makeshift phone to her head, pressing the call button.

"GiGi," she whisper-screamed over the static. "GiGi, please pick up. Marcus is outside my room, and so is Glenn! GiGi, I'm scared!" Lane glanced at the radio clock on the nightstand—2:04 a.m.

"GiGi!" Lane tried again. "GiGi, come on!"

The clicks from Lane's bedroom door sounded again, this time rolling in succession, thundering through the latch. The door creaked open; light splashed against Lane's eyes.

Two figures stood there, shadowed by the brightness. One held a key in his hand, and the other stood with arms folded.

"Good," said Marcus, the deeper voice. "You're awake."

Lane hurled the walkie talkie at the two men and bounded from her bed to the window, where she ripped at the lock until it twisted. She slammed her palms against the glass, but a set of bulky arms grasped her by the waist and yanked her backward. Lane kicked a swung her arms wildly, landing a hit against what felt like a cheekbone.

A single grunt escaped her assailant, followed by a sharp smack to the back of Lane's head. Another hand gripped her throat and started to squeeze. Numbly, Lane felt herself being dragged. Through blurry eyes, she could make out the secretary's desk, the set of double doors leading out of Molding the Way, a black car that reflected the moon.

Lane heard a door unlock, then felt her face smash into a leather seat cushion. She tried to push herself up but felt the force of a forearm slam into her temple and knock her head back into the seat. The arm that gripped her neck released, and a cough of agony escaped her throat.

"Head down," barked Marcus's voice. "Keep her head down."

The ignition whirred, and Lane felt the car accelerate, just as another hand bore down on the back of her skull. She tried screaming, but the thickness of the leather seat swallowed up the sound of her wails.

"Did you bring the belt?" Glenn asked.

Lane's eyes darted left to right, but all she could see—vision scrunched by the thick and rubbery folds of seating—was pitch black, midnight.

"Of course," she heard Marcus reply.

"Good," Glenn's voice rumbled out again. "I hate it when they scream."

The car stopped eventually, and Lane felt her body jerk upright at the force of Glenn's pull. She flung her head left, then right, glimpsed nothing but dusky ebony in all directions—save for a single white building and the school parking lot behind it.

As she blinked the blur from her eyes, Lane heard the backseat door click open, and a hand reached at her legs to rip off her light pink leggings. She screamed this time, a loud and terrified scream, just as a hand gripped her once more and choked the voice out of her.

Her vision blurred again, and a heavy hand pounded her in the jaw, right before another forced thick swabs of fabric to the back of her mouth and down her throat. She struggled to breathe, writhed in pain as the friction of a leather belt tightened around her neck, burning her skin.

Two hands grasped her legs, and another two circled her arms; together, they pulled her thrashing body into the bleak night, carried her inside their place of worship as she squirmed.

They brought her down the hallway, past the sanctuary, to some room Lane had never seen before. They released her at last and shut the door, then proceeded to rip and tear at her clothes. They mutilated the fibers and bruised the tender skin underneath until at last, they were pleased with the portrait of pure apricot skin before them—uncovered, seamless, beautiful.

Lane felt the weight of their gazes on every inch of her, crawling, prodding, penetrating. She struggled to draw breath against the tightness of the belt restricting her neck, against the width of the fabric stuffed in her throat. Shirts unbuttoned; pants unzipped; the heat of flesh and bone lay into her. And she screamed. Though no one—not even she—could hear it, Lane Martin screamed.

****

She was numb, utterly and irrevocably numb, when she heard the steps of a woman on high-heeled shoes echo outside the room and down the hallway. Moments later, the door swung open. Lane felt the wretched heat of the hulking frame beside her vanish as Glenn Clather stood to his feet.

"Way to kill the mood, Marissa."

"It's nearly daylight," the tall woman spoke. "You boys have been at it all night. Any longer, and I won't have time to clean her before breakfast."

A sigh. "Fine. Take her."

Thin, bony fingers wrapped around Lane's upper arms. "Get up," ordered Marissa.

Lane's body slumped.

"A little help here, Marcus?" Marissa barked.

Two arms slid behind Lane's shoulder blades, forcing her upward. Her legs wobbled and nearly gave way, but Glenn rushed forward and caught her by the thighs.

The door to the main hallway opened, and Lane was ushered forward. She couldn't tell if she was being dragged or carried. All she saw were paintings along the hallway walls; among them, brushstroke calligraphy:

For those in authority are God's servants—he who rebels against them rebels against God.

Lane shut her eyes, swollen from crying, and felt soreness rub against her eyeballs.

She couldn't move.

She was beyond tears.

Hard-bottom soles and high-heeled shoes clicked against steps. Cool air rushed over Lane's bare body. Water splashed out of a faucet. It kept pouring in a steady stream.

Two sets of arms lowered Lane into the water. It was warm to the touch, but the ice in the air surrounding was still heavy and unrelenting. Lane cracked her eyes open.

Blood swirled in the water's waves, a crimson spate seeping from between Lane's legs. She twisted right, saw Marissa blurrily as she dipped a bath towel into a soapy basin.

Lane shut her eyes again as the woman gripped her by the shoulder and began scrubbing her with the towel. Across her face, beneath her neck, along her chest, between her legs, amid her thighs—the towel slithered and snaked its way down Lane's body, leaving the scent of milk and honey everywhere it touched.

Lane's eyes found new tears, and now they dripped into the water below. She raised her head and noticed what must have been the tiniest of cameras suspended from the ceiling, nestled away in a dark corner and watching with eyes as deep and dark as Marissa's—as Caroline's, Elizabeth's, Marcus's, and Glenn's.