The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, an irritating, buzzing counterpoint to the suffocating tension in the room.

David Miller crossed the cafeteria floor with long, jerky strides. He ignored the stares of the students, the hushed whispers of the faculty. His gaze was locked on me—or rather, on the small girl cowering behind my legs.

“Get away from my daughter,” he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel grinding together.

Mr. Thompson, the principal, burst through the side door, flanked by the school resource officer. “Mr. Miller,” Thompson’s voice boomed, trying to project authority he clearly didn’t feel. “You cannot be in here. We need to step into the office.”

David stopped five feet from us. Up close, he smelled of stale tobacco and something metallic. “I’m taking her home. She’s not well.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” I said, surprising myself. My hands were shaking, but I kept them balled into fists at my sides. “We saw the lock, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes snapped to mine. For a second, the mask of the concerned parent slipped, revealing a bottomless, terrifying rage. “It’s a necklace. She likes it. It’s a game we play.”

“A game?” I challenged. “She’s terrified to eat because she thinks you’ll be angry if her neck grows.”

“Lies,” he spat. He looked at Lily. “Come here, Lily-bug. Tell them. Tell them it’s our game.”

Lily stepped out from behind me. She was trembling so violently her teeth chattered. She looked at the floor, her shoulders hunched.