Chapter 8

The neon tubes buzzed with a low, electric hum, a sound that seemed to vibrate right through the soles of my shoes and up into my bones. We were in the thick of it, the chaotic, sugary high of the end of the world, or at least, the end of our little retreat. The bowling alley was a time capsule of chrome and vinyl, a place where the air always smelled of stale beer, floor wax, and teenage desperation. But tonight, it felt like a cathedral. I stood by the lane markers, my toes curled into the plush, deep-pile carpet that had seen better decades. My legs ached in that good, heavy way that comes from walking miles and standing still for hours, waiting for a cue. Across the room, I could feel him watching me. I didn’t need to turn my head to know where Daddy was. I could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and possessive, pressing against the back of my neck like a physical touch. He was leaning against the railing of the viewing gallery, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, his other hand resting casually on the banister, but his eyes—dark, hungry,