Chapter Five
The room was gray concrete, with bars on one window. The steel table was scraped, and the metal bar to which she’d been cuffed was gouged, most likely from all the others who’d been chained there before her.
She hated that prick, the sheriff. He reminded her so much of her foster dad, Marty Humboldt, a self-proclaimed evangelist who believed the world was going to s**t. He had a pole shoved so far up his ass that he thought saving her and every other kid was his duty, his responsibility, as if he were God’s gift to the world. His wife, Elma Mae, was ordinary, not fat and not thin, just a plain woman who’d never stand out anywhere. They had rules, and the list of acceptable conduct, of dos and don’ts, was taped as a reminder to the back of the bathroom door. Damn their rules!
