Lily didn’t answer. Her eyes, the color of bruised violets, darted frantically around the room, scanning the exits, the windows, the faces of the teachers. She looked like a trapped animal waiting for the snare to tighten.

I reached the front of the line just as Mrs. Davison reached out. “Lily, look at me. It’s okay.”

The matron’s hand gently touched Lily’s chin to tilt her head up, a motherly gesture meant to comfort.

But as Lily’s head tipped back, the collar of her oversized, pilled gray sweater slipped.

Time stopped.

There, resting against the hollow of her throat, was a choker. A thick, black band of leather that looked stark and violent against her porcelain skin. And hanging from the center loop, heavy and cold, was a silver padlock.

It wasn’t a piece of jewelry from a trendy mall store. It was hardware. Functional. Brutal.

My breath caught in a sharp intake.