Scott stepped out of the car and stretched his back. Everything he did—from his speech to his posture—came off as scripted. As if he was a talentless actor-for-hire who couldn"t even get a job at a child"s birthday party. Everything about him was phony. I felt it from day one, but wouldn"t be able to quite put my finger on it until years later.
“I need to stretch my legs, Elizabeth. Walk with me,” he bade.
I had turned seventeen and Scott"s visits had become more frequent. Twice a week he would drive the three hours from New Jersey. The routine was expected of me now and I had no skill to argue. I followed.
We would walk down the trail into the forest, the same forest where Joe and I had… We would barely make it to the trees before Scott grabbed me and pushed me to my knees.
“Alright,”
