I retreated to my bedroom, locking the door and pressing my back against the wood, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I barely slept, listening to the muffled, angry voices downstairs. When the pale, gray dawn finally broke, I threw on my coat, desperate to get out of the house and clear my head before facing them again.
I walked out the front door, the damp morning fog clinging to my skin. I reached into my pocket for my keys, heading toward the driveway.
It was empty.
I stopped dead on the wet concrete. My Honda Civic—the car I had paid half the down payment for, the car I made the monthly payments on, but which was legally registered in my father’s name—was gone.
I spun around, sprinting back to the front door. I shoved my key into the deadbolt and turned. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled it out, examined it, and shoved it back in, rattling the handle with rising hysteria. The lock had been changed.
