Sanctum

by Sarah Fine

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Sarah Fine

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Request for permission should be addressed to:

  Amazon Publishing

  Attn: Amazon Children’s Publishing

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89149

  www.amazon.com/amazonchildrenspublishing

  ISBN: 978-0-7614-6329-0

  Book design by The Black Rabbit

  Map design by Luka Rejec

  Editor: Courtney Miller

  First edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Jennifer, who was there from the beginning.

  Contents

  Prologue

  One: A year later

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Sneak Peek: Book Two

  PROLOGUE

  ON MY FIRST DAY at Warwick High School, if you’d told me I would choose to go to hell for any of the students, let alone Warwick’s queen bee, I would have laughed. Or maybe I would have stabbed you with a ballpoint pen (it was kind of a rough day).

  I was out behind the school, lighting up a badly needed lunchtime cigarette, when I first saw her. She was pretty, blonde, and wearing something more expensive than a year’s worth of foster care checks. Her pale blue eyes darted across the fence and landed on this tall, skinny kid in dirty jeans who was standing next to me. She walked up to him, her voice shaking as she asked, “Angela told me you have OC?”

  Dirty Jeans peeled himself off the fence. “Angela might be right, depending on what you have for me.”

  The girl reached into her purse, pulled out several bills, and held them up. I felt like slapping her in the back of the head. Nobody ever taught her not to wave money around in public?

  Dirty Jeans smiled as he pivoted around and backed her against the fence. “I think you might have more than that for me. Is this your first time?”

  Now, what do they call that? Something French. Double fucking entendre. I should have jammed my cigarette in his eye right then. I can’t be the only girl who fantasizes about these things.

  The blonde’s face crumpled. “My first…oh, coming back here…yes?”

  Couldn’t she tell this punk wanted to take advantage of her? He was obviously going to take her money, but she’d asked for it. And by the way he was looking at her, I was betting he would try to double-charge for her fix. She had not asked for that.

  I shouldn’t have cared. I’d been listening to girls like her make bitchy comments about my wild hair and cheap-ass Kmart-special outfit ever since I showed up this morning for my first day of school, escorted to the office by my new foster mom and my probation officer. I’d watched those girls shrink back as I walked down the hall. I’d heard them whispering about how I’d killed someone, which was totally untrue. I’d almost killed someone. And I’d expected all those rumors, all those pinch-faced expressions, and already decided I didn’t care what they thought, didn’t care about them. So what did it matter that this preppy girl was about to get some involuntary up-close with a wannabe drug dealer?

  But…the moment I saw the blood drain from her already-pale face, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to watch this go down.

  I crushed out my cigarette and took a few steps closer to them. I’m not huge, but I’m not one of those anorexic walking stalks of celery, either. I could do man push-ups. I’d had some time on my hands while I was at the RITS: Rhode Island’s teen jail. I also knew the value of being able to protect myself. Just one of the many side effects of having been Rick Jenson’s foster kid. After months spent under his “care,” I’d tried to kill myself. And when that didn’t turn out to be the escape I’d hoped for, I’d escaped in a different way. By beating the crap out of him and getting myself sent to juvie. Where I learned not to be afraid of kids like Dirty Jeans.

  “Come on now,” I snapped, taking another step closer. “Let her buy her pills and run back to her friends.”

  “Shut up,” replied Dirty Jeans as he leaned closer to the girl, towering over her. He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t think I was a threat. Awesome.

  The bell signaled the end of lunch. I was one fuckup away from getting sent right back to the RITS and should have been scurrying to class, but I couldn’t force myself to leave her. I knew what it felt like to be helpless and pinned, no matter how hard I tried to forget.

  “Take the cash,” she whimpered, “and let me go to class.”

  “Oh, you can’t leave now. We have to discuss payment,” Dirty Jeans crooned as he spared me a sidelong glance. I could almost see the gears turning in his tiny brain, like he thought he could get a twofer, like he thought I’d go along. And sure enough, he started to snake his arm around my neck as he spoke to the girl. “I want to feel your pretty mouth on my—”

  I punched him in the stomach and he doubled over. I turned to the girl, who looked like she was about to hurl. “What are you waiting for? Get out of he—”

  Dirty Jeans grabbed my hair, then jerked me backward. I smashed my heel down on his foot and elbowed him in the stomach. He gasped and let go of my hair. I darted behind him, pulling the only weapon I had out of my pocket: a ballpoint pen.

  I aimed a sharp kick at the back of his knee and got a fistful of his hair as he staggered. He fell to his knees, and I kept hold of his hair as I snapped his head back. I held the point of the pen to his neck. “Ready to go back to class?” I allowed myself the luxury of pressing the pen into his neck, just a little. It left a satisfyingly deep indentation ringed with blue ink.

  His hands rose from his sides but dropped quickly as the pen sank farther into his skin. He winced and rasped, “Yeah, but I’m gonna find you after school—”

  I rocked his head back and forth. “Your rich-kid-wannabe-gangsta act doesn’t impress me at all. Believe me when I say I will fuck you up if you so much as twitch in my direction. I even have some friends in Providence who would love to help me. Would you like to meet them?”

  I didn’t really. But if you had my rep and told this type of kid you had “friends in Providence,” they thought one thing: Latin Kings, baby. If I had to deal with the stereotype, why not make it work in my favor sometimes?

  Dirty Jeans shook his head. He didn’t look me in the eye, which meant he wouldn’t give up…and would attack from behind next time. Suddenly tired, I let go of his hair.

  “I heard about you. You’re that girl who just got out of the RITS, right? That means you’re on probation.” Little flecks of spit flew from his mouth as he got to his feet. “So guess what? You’re going back there—”

  “No, she isn’t,” snapped the girl. I had almost forgotten she was there. “If you tell anyone what just
happened, I’ll take my pretty mouth straight to the principal’s office, crying that you sexually assaulted me. Then we’ll see who ends up in the RITS.”

  I was starting to like this girl.

  Dirty Jeans fell silent. Although anyone would believe him if he accused me of attacking him, no one would buy the story if she backed me up.

  “You better watch your back, bitch.” He spun around and jogged toward the school.

  The girl turned to me. She looked so relieved that I thought she might fall to the ground. “Thank you so much,” she said, holding out a trembling hand. “I’m Nadia Vetter.”

  It was such a formal gesture that I almost laughed out loud and ruined everything. Instead, I shook her hand. “Lela Santos,” I replied. “You’re welcome. And thank you, too.”

  The bell rang again and I groaned. Nadia tilted her head. “What’s your next?”

  “English. With—” I pulled my crumpled schedule out of my pocket. “Hoffstedler?”

  She leaned over and checked the room number. “I’ve got History one hall over. Come on. I’ll walk you to class.” She started toward the entrance to the school, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “You coming? It’ll be better if I take you there. Then we can blame your tardiness on me.” Her smile was bright. “They always forgive me.”

  I opened and closed my mouth a few times, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that this preppy girl was actually being nice, when I’d expected her to give me a quick thank-you and then start pretending I didn’t exist. Finally, I stopped trying to find the right words to say and simply followed her into the school.

  By my second day at Warwick High School, if you’d told me I would choose to go to hell for its queen bee, I might have believed you.

  ONE

  A year later

  MY MUSCLES CONTRACTED, POWERFUL and controlled, pushing me up from the ground and lowering me to the floor again. Over and over, until my arms trembled and my breath exploded from my throat in sharp bursts. And then a few more times after that, just to be sure I could. I finished my push-ups and moved on to sit-ups.

  The knock at my door pulled me from my mindless reps. “Baby? You’re awful quiet in there.”

  I sank back and tilted my head to the door, brushing away my curly hair, now damp with sweat. Diane, my foster mother, opened the door a crack and peeked in.

  I sat up and wiped my face with my sleeve. “I’m just finishing. You can come in.”

  She opened the door all the way. “You work yourself hard.”

  I grabbed the glass of water from my bedside table. “I thought that’s what I was supposed to be doing.”

  She nodded at the books and papers scattered across my desk. “I don’t see how you have so much energy. You stay up so late.” A frown creased her deep brown skin. “I know you don’t get enough sleep.”

  Sleep hadn’t actually been restful for the past few years, but I didn’t talk about that. “I’ve had a lot of catching up to do.” In the year I’d lived with Diane, I had managed to pull my GPA out of the two-point-argh range, but just barely.

  “You’ve done a lot more than that. Have you checked the mail today?”

  “Yup. Nothing.”

  She shrugged. “It’s coming, baby. I can feel it.” Sometimes I got the sense that the one college application I’d sent in meant more to Diane than it did to me. As much as I hated to admit it, though, I’d started to let myself hope for a future I’d never thought was possible.

  “You have plans with Nadia tonight?” Diane asked.

  “I’m going to stay over at her house. Her mom’s in the Seychelles with her new boyfriend.”

  “Don’t get up to any trouble.”

  We never got up to any trouble. That was why Diane liked Nadia so much. Aside from anxiety about always having to be perfect, Nadia was, well, perfect. I frowned. Or maybe not. She seemed really stressed lately.

  After a quick shower, I shoved my stuff into my backpack and headed out the door. The drive to Nadia’s was short, but turning onto her street was like entering a different world. I wondered if her neighbors locked their doors and pulled their blinds when they saw me coming. Or maybe they paid someone else to do it for them.

  The old, beat-up Corolla that Diane’s uncle had lent me felt small and shabby as I rolled to a stop in front of the row of garage doors at the head of Nadia’s driveway. I parked next to Tegan’s BMW. Usually Nadia’s other friends cleared out when they knew I was going to be around. Even though we’d been hanging out for almost a year, her friends—especially Tegan—remained pissed and baffled that she was spending time with someone like me. About a week ago, though, Nadia got sick of it and told Tegan I wasn’t going anywhere and that she had to at least talk to me.

  I wished Nadia had consulted me first.

  Nadia pulled open the front door before I reached it. “I was going to let you two take it slow, but apparently Tegan’s therapist told her she needed to bond with you.”

  “That sounds…really unpleasant.”

  She bit her lip, half laughing, half cringing. “Don’t be mad.”

  I shouldered my pack and walked cautiously up the front steps. I’d long since gotten over my urge to kick Tegan’s ass. “It’s fine. Unless she starts talking extreme makeover, and then the gloves come off.”

  Tegan peeked over Nadia’s shoulder. Her short brown hair was stylishly jagged around her face. “Hi, Lela. Glad your probation officer let you come over,” she said as she handed Nadia a bottle of soda.

  Tegan sucked at bonding.

  Nadia took the bottle and gently bonked Tegan on the head with it. “Cut it out. I want to relax tonight.”

  Tegan stuck out her tongue at Nadia, then turned to me. “Hey, I read about some Dominican festival this weekend. Maybe we could go and celebrate your roots.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head, deeply regretting this new, talking-to-me Tegan. “Lela’s not from the Dominican Republic,” Nadia answered for me.

  “Close enough, right?” Tegan looked sincerely confused, probably because I was the only person of color she’d ever spoken to. “Where are you from, then?”

  “Um, here?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, I mean originally.”

  My hand closed over the strap of my backpack, turning my knuckles pale. “Here.”

  “Oh, come on, Lela, give us the specifics. Maybe your peeps have a festival, too.”

  I sighed. “I think I’m Puerto Rican.”

  “You think? Don’t people know that kind of thing for sure?”

  Nadia skipped forward and offered me the soda. “You can have it if you don’t kill her,” she sang.

  “Well, Tegan,” I explained in my painful-death-is-too-good-for-you voice, “I haven’t seen my mother since I was four years old, and I didn’t think to ask her then.”

  Tegan nodded like I’d just told her I enjoyed watching The Bachelor or something. “That’s too bad. I was hoping you were Cuban. I really like those sandwiches.”

  Nadia closed her eyes and shook her head. “Um, how about you go order the pizza?” She handed Tegan a menu.

  Tegan shot us a prettily manicured finger and skipped into the kitchen.

  As I set my backpack down on the living-room table, I saw the large, thick envelope from the University of Rhode Island. “Oh my God, is that what I think it is?”

  Nadia nodded. “Just arrived today. Did you get one?”

  “No. I mean, not yet.” I picked up the envelope and stared at it. “Congratulations, Nadia,” I said, grinning. “Looks like we have something to celebrate tonight.”

  She gave me a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks.”

  She turned and walked toward the kitchen, obviously expecting me to follow. But I just stood there, that envelope in my hands, wondering what had changed. Six months ago, she’d practically forced me to fill out an application. Until then I’d never really thought about the future. I was too busy trying to survive each moment.
But meeting Nadia had changed all that. So I’d filled out the application and sent it off. At first Nadia had been absolutely stoked. She’d taken me down to tour the campus with her, talked nonstop about how great it was going to be if we both got in. Lately, though, she’d stopped talking about it so much. I set the envelope back down and headed for the kitchen.

  A few hours later, we were lounging in front of the giant flat-screen in the entertainment room. Tegan was pretty much passed out, done in by her third glass of Merlot.

  Nadia cradled her own wineglass against her chest like she didn’t trust herself not to drop it. “You’re the first person who’s congratulated me about getting into URI. Tegan wasn’t impressed because she’s headed to Wellesley, and Mom…”

  I set my soda on a coaster and muted the volume. “I take it she wasn’t happy?”

  Mrs. Vetter wasn’t happy about much—especially that I had become friends with Nadia. I hadn’t known her before Nadia’s dad died, so I’d tried to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  Nadia shook her head and took a sip of wine. “She wants me to go to Wellesley with Teg.” She smiled sadly. “I’d rather stay here. URI was good enough for my dad…”

  I got up and went to the window, parting the heavy curtains and staring out at the Narragansett Bay. She’d been the one to bring up college, and I’d been picturing going through all of that with her.

  When I turned back around, she gave me the I-can-see-straight-through-you look. “I’d miss you, too, Lela. But don’t worry about it. We’re going to go to college together—here. I need you to keep me sane.”

  She’d said that to me more than once. That I kept her from going off the deep end. “You have way too much faith in me,” I mumbled.

  “You have way too little faith in yourself. Come on. I need you. You can use your fab butt-kicking skills to get me out of bed in time for class every morning.” She folded her hands beneath her chin and batted her eyelashes. “Roomies?”