him, only how could she do that to her father?
And to be honest, she was scared to death of him.
Barbi looked at the bruises where Vic had grabbed her wrist the night before—he was a mean drunk. She shoved her bangles over the marks, her heart aching more than her sore wrist. It hadn’t always been like this. Before her mom died, Vic had laughed a lot, worked steadily and only drank an occasional beer. But it was as if something inside him had broken when they’d buried her mother. Hell, he wasn’t the only one who’d been hurt when Rachael Paulson died; he didn’t have to dive into a vodka bottle and stop being a dad because of it.
Sighing, she turned a page of the history book. It was the section on the American Revolution and she needed to memorize the dates. Learning the information wasn’t the problem, it was having her mind go blank when she took the test.
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