by Callie Rose
But I don’t fucking care. I just want to break something.
We’ll figure it out.
My mom spent the past seven years digging herself out of the financial hole she went into trying to pay for my cancer treatments. She isn’t even all the way out yet, but her new job at the Black family’s house as their Executive Housekeeper was going to get her there. It was going to turn our fucking lives around.
Now it’s like someone cut the rope she was using to climb out of that hole and made the hole deeper while they were at it, leaving her to fall into a dark abyss that seems to have no bottom.
But what are her choices?
Take on more crushing debt, or go to prison—possibly for life—on a murder charge?
That’s a shitty list of options.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” I reach out and press my palm against hers, hating every atom of the plexiglass that keeps us from touching. “I’m so sorry.”
She smiles sadly and even huffs a soft breath of laughter. “Sweetheart, it’s not your fault. None of this is.”
She’s wrong about that.
I didn’t murder Iris, but I know who did. A man in black, who wore a black mask and moved like a predator.
I don’t know his name, but I know he exists. I know my mom didn’t do this. And if Lincoln, River, Dax, and Chase hadn’t betrayed me, maybe I could’ve convinced the detective to look for that man instead of arresting my mother.
The tears I always promise myself I won’t cry when I come see her slip down my cheeks, and I can see her brown eyes glisten in response. Quickly, I pull my hand away from the glass and wipe my eyes, sucking in a deep breath and forcing a smile to my face.
“I love you, Mom. You’re the most badass person I know. And—and you’re right. It’s all gonna be okay.”
We traded these kinds of empty promises and reassurances back and forth when I was going through chemo, and even though we both knew they were promises we couldn’t guarantee, I know how much it helps to hear the words.
There is power in believing. In holding onto hope.
And I won’t take that away from my mom, even if I can’t find my own hope right now.
Some of the strain leaves her face. Her hair, the same deep brown as mine, is pulled back from her face in a simple ponytail, and her complexion still seems too pale, like the blood never fully returned to her face after the shock of being arrested in the middle of Mr. and Mrs. Black’s cocktail party.
“Is there anything I can do for you? Anything to help?” I ask, chewing my lip.
She starts to shake her head, then stops, and my heart leaps with hope. I’m dying to do something, anything.
“You can go back to school.”
She arches a brow, and for a second, she looks just like she would if we were hanging out in her apartment in the service quarters over a pint of ice cream—for a second, I can almost forget that she’s locked behind bars.
When I start to glance away, she taps on the glass with her knuckles to get my attention back and shakes her head at me.
“I’m serious, Low. Samuel told me you haven’t gone all week. I know you’re worried, but you can visit me after classes let out, and you’re not doing me or yourself any good staying home.”
“It’s not my home,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
I sound like an ungrateful asshole, I know I do. Samuel Black has stepped up above and beyond what any employer could be expected to do—especially for an employee who’s worked for him for less than six months.
It’s not his fault I’m so pissed at his son that living under the same roof as him makes me want to punch a hole through a wall.
Mom’s face falls again, and I know that of all the things she hates about this situation, her biggest regret is having to leave me on my own, at the mercy of other people’s kindness.
I want to take that guilt away from her, so I blow out a breath and nod. “You’re right. I’ll start going to school tomorrow. But I’m still gonna come visit you as often as I can.”
Her breath hitches, and I hear the quiet noise through the phone receiver pressed to my ear.
“You better,” she murmurs softly.
We talk for a few more minutes, and I wish I could distract her with entertaining chitchat about other, mundane topics. But I can’t think about anything else. I can’t talk about anything else.
Four words beat against the inside of my skull, and they seem to drown out everything else, making every other aspect of my life seem unimportant in comparison.
You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here.
When I finally stand up to leave, my bones ache from not being able to hug her. We press our hands to the glass one last time—a gesture that always seemed a little cheesy in movies, but which now gives me the tiny spark of hope I need to keep going.
I leave the prison, which is on the far north side of Fox Hill, and head for the bus stop across the street. Mom hates that I take the bus to come visit her, but it’s not like the Fox Hill Correctional Center is the most dangerous place on earth. And I don’t really have a choice. Her car was seized as evidence, and I’d rather stick a hot butter knife through my eye than let Lincoln or any of the other kings of Linwood drive me.
The ride back to the Black family’s neighborhood is long and involves two transfers, but I don’t really care. I have nowhere else to be. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and I should be in eighth period History right now, but I skipped school today just like I have every day since Mom’s arrest.
I wasn’t lying to her. I’ll start going again tomorrow. But it’s too late to make it to any classes today.
On the last leg of my trip, my phone buzzes in my purse, and I drag my gaze away from the increasingly fancy houses outside to dig it out of my bag.
HUNTER: Hey Low. This is your daily check-in to make sure you’re still alive.
I tug my bottom lip between my teeth as I read the message from my best friend back home in Arizona. She calls it her daily check-in, but hourly might be a better descriptor. I miss her so fucking much, but her constant stream of texts and frequent calls have made me feel a little bit less alone.
ME: Hey dummy. Yep, still alive.
HUNTER: How’s your mom?
ME: Okay… or as okay as possible, I guess. I just saw her.
HUNTER: God, this is so unbelievably fucked up. I told you my parents flipped when I told them, right?
ME: They didn’t believe it, did they??
HUNTER: Fuck no. They know your mom.
ME: Good.
HUNTER: If she needs like character witnesses or anything, you know we’ll be there in a heartbeat. I’ll testify in front of God and a jury and everyone. I don’t even care who.
ME: Thanks, dummy. Love you.
HUNTER: Love you more.
HUNTER: Hey, you wanna hear dumb, trivial life stuff or not? I thought maybe it would distract you, but maybe you don’t want a distraction.
ME: No, I need one. Lay it on me. What class are you in right now, btw?
HUNTER: Chemistry. Mrs. Lundt gives no shits. I didn’t even hide my phone under my desk.
HUNTER: Kevin and I broke up.
I grimace, shaking my head slightly. The news isn’t all that surprising—I had a feeling they were headed that way. And I think it’s probably a good thing. Hunter is tiny, but she makes up for it with a manic energy that would make a hummingbird look like a sloth. Kevin’s a nice guy, but I always felt like he was a little… flat for her. She needs someone who can meet her energy level, or if not meet it, at least appreciate it. Kevin tolerated it, and that’s just not good enough for my bestie.
Still, I can tell—even in a five-word text—that she’s sad about it.
ME: Ah that sucks. I’m sorry.
HUNTER: It’s for the best. It was time, it’s just… being alone again sucks, you know?
God, do I ever know.
This time last week, I had four boys on my side. Four boys
I was starting to care for, really care for. Four boys who were starting to feel like they were mine.
And now, I’m more alone than I’ve ever been in my life.
ME: I wish I could hug the shit out of you right now.
HUNTER: Awww me too.
We keep texting back and forth as the bus trundles down the wide city streets, and even though we’re both nursing heartache, I think we manage to make each other feel better. As much as her break-up sucks, talking about something normal feels good right now.
She tells me she has to go when her Chemistry class lets out, promising to call me later. I check for any other messages on my phone—there are none, which isn’t that surprising—and drop it back in my bag.
Our text conversation got me almost all the way back to my destination, and as the bus rounds a corner onto the street where I’ll make my final stop, I can feel tension gathering in my muscles again.
I know I’m lucky Mr. Black offered to let me stay with them while my mom “sorts this all out”, but I hate living in that fucking house. If we had the money, I would’ve checked into a hotel so fast there would’ve been nothing but a little smoke trail left behind me.
But we don’t.
We barely have enough money for mom’s lawyer, and I know that won’t last long once the fees start piling up.
So I’m living under the charity of Samuel and Audrey Black and doing my level best to avoid their son.
I yank the cord to request a stop as the bus rolls through a wide intersection, and when the driver pulls over, I push open the back doors and step out onto the sidewalk. November in Connecticut is a lot chillier than it is in Arizona, and I cross my arms over my chest as the bus rolls away with a hydraulic hiss.
The Black’s house is still over a mile away—their fancy-pants neighborhood isn’t really the type to have many bus stops—so I turn and head in that direction, walking at a fast clip to try to stay warm.
As I head down the sidewalk, a prickle of awareness brushes over the back of my neck. My steps slow slightly as all my focus shifts to the space behind me.
Someone’s following me. I’m sure of it.
I heard a car’s engine a second ago, but no vehicle ever pulled past me. It must’ve slowed down instead of speeding up.
Images of a man in black, of a ski mask that covers everything but his eyes and mouth, invade my brain, and my heart starts to pound heavily and erratically in my chest.
The man’s car was dark too. Everything about him was dark—like a shadow, like a bad fucking dream.
My hands bunch into fists. I can feel my fingertips shaking, and it’s not from cold.
There’s a high stone wall running alongside the paved sidewalk, and I move closer to it, like that will save me if whoever’s behind me tries to run me over.
My neck feels stiff as I turn my head slightly, holding my fear in check by a thread as I peek behind me out of the corner of my eye.
Shit.
There is a car back there.
And as soon as I see the driver’s face, one part of my heart relaxes while another part clenches even tighter.
It’s Lincoln.
2
Adrenaline is still pouring through my body as I gaze through the windshield, making my stomach churn until I feel sick.
Lincoln is alone in the car, his head tilted slightly as he creeps along behind me at a mile an hour. The bright amber color of his eyes is a stark contrast to his almost-black hair, which falls over his forehead a little. His features are almost inhumanly symmetrical, the angles of his face sharp and perfect.
He’s beautiful.
Or at least, I thought so once.
Now, I can barely look at him without wanting to vomit.
I drag my gaze away from his and pick up my pace, veering back into the center of the sidewalk. The engine rumbles, and a second later, the car pulls up alongside me, the passenger side window rolling down smoothly.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself, Low,” he says, a hard edge to his voice. “Did you take the bus to the prison again?”
“None of your fucking business,” I shoot back, putting one foot in front of the other and keeping my gaze fixed ahead.
Part of me wants to sprint back to the house, but I’d never outrun him, and I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.
“Get in the car. I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”
I ignore that completely, wrapping my arms more tightly around myself in a protective gesture. I’ve known Lincoln Black for less than three months, but so much happened between us in that time that I fooled myself into thinking I knew him better than I did.
But I don’t.
I’m not sure I know him at all.
And I’m smart enough not to get into a car with a stranger.
I keep walking, shoulders hunched against the cold and the ache in my heart, ignoring the BMW that creeps along beside me. It isn’t the first time Lincoln has tried to talk to me since my mom’s arrest on Saturday, but I don’t want to hear what he has to say.
Ever since I met him, he’s been controlling and domineering—the kind of guy who insists on getting what he wants when he wants it. There was a time when I actually found those qualities somewhat attractive, but right now, they just make me want to slash all four of his tires.
He asked me to trust him. Demanded I trust him, really.
And I did.
I don’t plan on making that mistake again.
“Low.”
His voice floats out of the car window as we near the gated drive that leads to his house. I hate that he knows my nickname, hate that it still sounds so fucking good in his smooth tone.
I don’t answer. I shiver a little as I wait for him to open the gate so he can drive through, which will allow me to slip through too. But instead, he yanks up the parking brake and leaves the car idling as he shoves open the driver’s side door.
He’s already crossing in front of the car when I realize what he’s doing. He cuts me off as I start to dart forward, planting his larger body in front of my smaller one. Amber eyes blaze with concern and anger as our gazes lock for a half-second, and it’s the anger in him that draws out my own.
“Get the fuck out of my way, Lincoln,” I mutter under my breath as I stare past him, working so hard not to scream that my words are barely audible.
“No. Jesus, Low. You shouldn’t be going to the prison on a fucking bus. You should at least—”
“I swear to God, if you tell me not to go visit my mom, I’ll kick you in the balls so hard you’ll be a soprano for the rest of your life.”
He narrows his eyes at that, then shakes his head, dark hair glinting in the sunlight. “I wouldn’t tell you to do that. I know you’re upset. This isn’t what I wanted.”
His tone is sincere, and it cracks my heart.
It might not be what he wanted, but he didn’t do shit to try to stop it. And he was the one who deleted the tiny scraps of evidence we might’ve used to prove my mom’s innocence.
My emotions have always been so all over the place as far as Lincoln Black is concerned that I don’t trust myself around him. I don’t trust myself not to get sucked in by honeyed words and empty promises. I let it happen once before, and everything in my life came crumbling down as a result.
All I can do now is stop listening to the empty words he speaks and judge him solely by his actions.
And his actions have spoken plenty loud.
“It doesn’t matter, Linc.” I step around him, gathering up the pieces of my heart like shards of glass. “It’s not what I wanted either, and it sure as hell isn’t what my mom wanted, but here we all are, aren’t we?”
“Fucking hell. Wait!”
He doesn’t let me get more than two steps before he’s in front of me again, grabbing my arms to stop me this time.
Even through the sleeves of my jacket and light blue sweater, I can feel the heat of his palms, the strength of his grip, and I freeze, trying to contro
l my body’s reaction to his touch. My traitorous brain wants to convince me this is comforting, but it’s not.
It can’t be.
“No.” I keep my voice firm and low, staring at his broad chest because I can’t stand to look into his eyes. “There’s nothing I want to say to you, Lincoln. And nothing I want to hear. We both know the only reason I’m still living here is because I’m too fucking broke to go anywhere else. I owe your dad for that, but I don’t owe you shit. And if you don’t leave me alone, I will find someplace else to go, whether I can afford it or not.”
I can’t see his expression because I won’t let myself look, but his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. His hands release my arms, hovering in the space between us for a moment with fingers splayed.
“Okay, Low. Okay.” His voice is quiet, something like defeat echoing in the heavy words. “You win. Just… don’t go.”
There’s something that sounds like pain in his voice too, and I have to battle against the stupid part of myself that wants to step into the comfort of his embrace, to let him whisper pretty lies and empty promises just so I can feel less terrified and hopeless for a while.
But I don’t say anything, and although his hands stay suspended in the space between us, I don’t touch him again. I just keep my arms folded and wait, and after a long moment of silence, he gets back in his car and triggers the mechanism on the gate, making the heavy black metal swing inward.
He rolls up the curving driveway, and I follow after him, my steps deliberately slow to give him time to pull into one of the garages before I reach the house.
The Black family mansion is huge, two stories tall with a massive basement, a motor court, an actual ballroom, and an attached pool house in the back. It’s so different from the squat, ugly house mom and I lived in back in Bayard that there’s really no comparison. It doesn’t even feel like a house sometimes—more like a museum of opulence.
But it was starting to feel a little like a home, before all of this happened. My mom had a small, self-contained apartment on the northwest end of the second floor, and I was given a spare room around the corner from her—one so big and well-furnished that I was sure it hadn’t originally been intended for staff.