Flinging the door open, I rushed out, avoiding the kid in the armchair outside Crystal’s door. Her whimpers continued to haunt me as I rushed to my car. Covering my ears, I tried to escape the sound of her crying, his grunts, the demands.
“Say it, Crystal. Tell me you love me.”
I tripped out the door and stumbled to my car. My stomach was trembling and jerking, wanting to unleash a torrent of ugly tears. I slapped my hands against the roof of the car.
Crystal’s tiny voice did what he wanted, giving in so he could have his filthy way.
She did what he asked because she was terrified.
I didn’t because I was just as scared.
Fear kept me silent.
Fear got me beaten and isolated.
The smell of the dank basement seared my nostrils, the memories strong enough to cripple me.
But I never gave in.
I never once said, “I love you.”
And I never would.
My life was set, orderly…controlled. I couldn’t disrupt that with a kid. Especially one who reminded me of what it was like to lose everything that made me feel safe.
Chapter Four
Troy
“Don’t Leave Home” by Dido was playing on the radio. I pulled my car into the parking lot and hummed the song as I made my way into the office.
“I will be your safety,” I sang quietly, unlocking my door and shouldering it open.
I didn’t see anyone on my way in. I shared the small building with three other counselors. It was actually an old house that had been converted into a counseling center. Most of us were in and out quite a lot. I spent most of my time hanging out in classrooms, and sometimes homes to make sure they were safe for the children. My goal was to help families communicate, resolve their issues, and find a way forward.
The job was tough, but satisfying. There was nothing more rewarding than seeing a family work through their pain, learn to communicate and love again. I’d seen so many cases of success. A few failures too, but the success stories kept me going.
Pulling out my laptop, I placed it on my desk and dropped my bag on the floor behind me. My butt wasn’t even in the seat when my phone started ringing. I dug it out and flopped into my chair before answering.
“Good afternoon, Principal Turrell. How are you today?”
“Fine, fine.” His tone was always so clipped and busy.
I grinned and opened my laptop. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m having trouble with one of my seventh graders. Kid keeps getting into fights. We have a strict policy at this school. Fighting will not be tolerated under any circumstances, but yet again he’s in my office. I’ve told him this is the last straw. If he throws one more punch, I’m going to expel him.”
I rolled my eyes at the guy’s hard-line attitude. From my experience, kids didn’t kick and punch without a good reason.
“I’m happy to come and chat with him if you like.”
“Yes, well, his mother’s asked me to contact a counselor for him.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“She’s dying. Cancer. It’s just a matter of time now and he’s probably acting out because of that. He’s a very quiet, morose boy. Was a star student in elementary school but has been struggling for the past couple of years.”
“Does he have any family support?”
“No, it’s just the two of them. When she dies he’ll become a ward of the state. It’s very sad and we’ve tried to accommodate him as best we can, but I won’t tolerate any more fighting.” His voice crescendoed, giving away just how exasperated the situation made him.
I winced. “I understand. If you’ll send over his details, I’ll look into it right away.”
“Thank you, Troy. I’ll send the email now.”
As soon as he hung up, I set my phone down and opened up my mail account. Sounded like a tough case. Poor kid was facing foster care. He was probably terrified, plus heartbroken over losing his mother. If it was just the two of them, she was probably his everything.
My inbox dinged. I skimmed the message and double-clicked the attached file.
“Felix Grayson,” I murmured, scrolling down the screen until I came to his image.
He was a sweet-looking kid—a mop of dark hair and these pale brown eyes that did something to my heart. He looked sad yet resigned. Had he known about his mother’s cancer when the picture was taken?
I scanned down and read the history, quickly working out that his mother had been battling the disease since he entered the fifth grade. The photo was taken when he started middle school, no doubt terrified with everything that awaited him.
“Poor kid,” I muttered, slowing down and reading the detailed reports from his teachers and principals. I looked through his grades and quickly built an idea of who the kid was.
I liked to get a full scope before going in to meet someone.
The more I read, the more it reminded me of my younger brother, Jimmy. He was a wild piece of trouble when he started middle school. I shook my head at the hell he put me through. I’d basically been raising him since my dad split and Mom became obsessed with her cleaning business. I’d been six years older than him, and for some reason that made me capable of parenting him. I don’t know how the heck my mother came to that conclusion, but there it was.
I did okay, I guess. Jimmy turned out pretty good in the end. His life was on track—taking him to the stars, actually—but it’d been a tough road to travel.
Scrolling back up the screen, I gazed at the picture of Felix.
He didn’t have an older brother to cover for him, fix his messes, get him out of trouble. He had a mom, and he was about to lose her.
I honestly didn’t know what I could say to make him feel better about the situation. I always prided myself on being able to fix things, heal…restore. But how did you help someone whose future looked so bleak and hopeless?
All I could pray for was a good foster home for the guy…to be with someone who could love and care for him the way every kid deserved.
Chapter Five
Felix
I waved to Nurse Miranda as I walked past reception. She looked at my eye and winced. “You want an ice pack, honey?”
“Not today,” I muttered, stopping by the counter so she could grimace at my red knuckles.
“Hope you won.”
I shrugged. It kind of depended on what you qualified as a win. Did I deck those idiots who tried to wedgie me?
You bet.
Did I end up getting busted by Principal Turrell and told I had one chance left?
Pretty much.
I cringed, flicking the hair off my face and wondering what Mom was going to say.
“Don’t worry about it.” Miranda rubbed my arm. “You know she loves you more than anything.”
I nodded and headed for Mom’s room. I kind of hated that she’d moved into the hospice. But the staff took good care of us. I had a bed beside hers, and they served extra meals each night so I could eat too. Mom was too weak to look after herself and I couldn’t do it on my own. It was the right move for us…even though I didn’t want to do it.
I was living in a death house. Every day reminded me that the clock was ticking.
With a heavy sigh, I pushed the door open and dumped my bag on the chair. I didn’t want to look at Mom even though that’s all I could think about doing.
“Come here, sweet boy.” She beckoned me with her fingers. I shuffled to her bed and took a seat on the edge. Her hands were cold yet gentle as she lifted my chin and brushed her thumb over my bruise. “Did you start this one?”
“I never do, Mom! It’s self-defense! Not that Principal Dickhead ever wants to hear my side of the story.”
She smiled at my insult. “I love the way you fight.”
“What?” I frowned. “Mom, I could get expelled.”
“I know,” she croaked. “I just mean I love the way you stand up for yourself. You don’t let anybody push yo
u around. You’re a fighter…just like your Aunt Cassie.” Her voice trailed off, that sad look swamping her again. “She was always so much stronger than me.”
I sat back and gazed down at her, forcing my voice to be bright and upbeat. “You raised a kid on your own. You’re strong, Mom.”
“I’m not strong enough to beat this, kid.” She looked so sad again. I wanted to shake her out of it, tell her to give me a little sunshine, but I couldn’t move. If I shifted, I could shatter. If I spoke, I could fall apart.
Touching my cheek, Mom gave me a tender smile. It was so full of love that I thought I might cry. “I don’t know what your future holds, baby. If I’m one hundred percent honest, that scares me. I want you to have a good life full of love and sunshine and happiness.”
I forced a smile. “You’ve given me that, Mom.”
“You have to keep shining for the both us when I’m gone, okay?” She held her hand against my other cheek as well, so I couldn’t look away. Her voice was thick with emotion. “You have a beautiful soul. Don’t hide it from the world because you’re sad or scared.” Fear skittered across her face, stark and disconcerting. “No matter where you end up. You keep fighting for a good life, because that’s what you deserve. Don’t let anyone hurt you or take advantage of you. You’re better than that.” I went still at her fierce voice, the pleading in her eyes. “Promise me, Felix.”
“I-I promise.”
She studied my face, making sure I was telling the truth.
“I promise,” I whispered again.
She relaxed with a smile, then pulled me into a hug. Her arms trembled as she held me against her. I gently rubbed her shoulder, and “The Lucky Ones” started playing on Mom’s phone. We both went still, locked in an embrace and listening to a song we made ours years ago. Mom wanted it to be our theme song, and we went through a phase of listening to it every day.
Mom’s grip loosened and I sat back, grinning down at her as the music swirled around us.
“Guess what?” She smiled.
I snickered and raised my eyebrow at her, already knowing what she was going to say. “What?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
And I went back in for another hug.
Chapter Six
Cassie
The pavement felt good beneath me. My stride was full and steady, my pace good for this far into my run. I was going faster than usual but I needed to. Running was the only thing that came close to the peace I so desperately strived for. Running was an escape. The escape.
Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, soaking into my sports bra. I focused on my breathing as I powered up the hill. I was on my seventh mile. I usually ran about nine a day, but I wasn’t tired. I didn’t want to stop. If I stopped, I’d think.
I’d have to face the problem looming ahead of me. I couldn’t distract myself with rhythm and breathing, the sounds of traffic around me, the color of the sky.
Wiping a finger under my nose, I veered off my normal route. The hill descended quickly, and I was soon in a busy part of town. I didn’t mind so much. It gave me more things to look at and helped me dodge the inevitable faces dancing in my brain.
Crystal’s sobs had been tormenting me for a week. Seven nights of dreaming about her. Seven days of obsessing over her pitiful plea to take her son when she died.
I’d fought against it night after night, hour after hour, yet still she came back to me.
My brain and heart were at war, but they kept switching sides.
Logically, I should take him. He needed a home, and I knew from experience that there were no guarantees in the system. Before Davis and Mindy McCoy, we were with a lovely family—the Thompsons. They were fun and smart and kind. But then she got pregnant and they decided they didn’t want foster kids anymore, so off we went, discarded like a piece of recycled cardboard. We then got dumped in a home with three other foster kids. It was a noisy, chaotic place that I hated. After that was the grumpy lady who we used to call the Gingerbread Witch. We had fun playing tricks on her, hiding mice in her fridge and ants in her cereal. She got rid of us after only four months and then came the McCoys.
We thought we were set. Davis was a nice guy with a loud laugh. He told great stories and constantly made us giggle at his silly jokes.
But after five months…when we’d been lulled into a sense of safety…the nighttime came.
I clenched my fists and pumped my arms a little harder.
Rounding the corner, I ran toward the setting sun. The golden rays cast an orange glow on the buildings around me. I dipped my head against the bright glare and that’s when I noticed her.
She looked about my age. Her hair was long and ratty. Her feet were bare. Hollow cheeks and wild eyes gave away her drug addiction. She sat at a bus stop, twitching and muttering to herself. Her hands trembled as she tucked a lock of greasy hair behind her ear. I got a whiff of her stench as I jogged past.
It stayed with me, a lingering torture that only added to my unrest.
Jogging past a shop, I then got hit with the strains of a song Crystal used to play on our stereo—“If That Were Me.” The tune was slightly haunting, the lyrics totally confronting. Mel C sang about how cushy her life was while those on the streets suffered the cold and their despair.
I slowed my pace, my limbs complaining at the change-up. Eventually I dribbled to a stop, standing on the corner of a busy intersection and holding my sides. My chest heaved while my heart rate found its usual pace.
Staring back down the road, I strained to see the bus stop. I couldn’t make out the girl anymore…instead I was faced with a mirage.
Crystal, pregnant and alone, sitting on a park bench. She would have been dirty and homeless, no doubt terrified, constantly looking over her shoulder for Davis’s retribution. He always promised that if we left him, he’d hunt us down and make us pay. His fingers dug into my cheek, threatening to bury me in the backyard if I ever told anyone what he did to Crystal.
“It’s okay because we love each other. It’s a private thing. You don’t tell anyone, you understand me?”
Even at the age of nine, I knew he was full of shit. But I nodded anyway because I didn’t want to be buried alive.
My mind flashed to the boy waiting outside Crystal’s door. That was him…her son. It had to be.
I tried to picture him in my house, taking over my ordered space—disrupting it, pulling me to the edge. I couldn’t handle chaos. I needed order…control.
But then I pictured him in another house.
Davis McCoy had died nine years ago, but there would be other men like him. Rough hands, iron fists, chilling threats that kept you awake at night.
Crystal’s son with his soulful eyes… She was right. The foster system would rob him of something beautiful.
Unless I did something about it.
When Crystal left me, I didn’t think I’d survive. I’d never felt so lonely, so desolate.
Would her son be feeling that way? I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone facing such a terrifying future. It didn’t matter who his father was. That boy had a sweet face, kind eyes. I hadn’t thought Davis McCoy when I looked at him. Crystal didn’t want to believe that man was the father, but the chances were high. Could I handle living with his offspring?
I had to.
I had to be strong enough.
I couldn’t say no to my sister. I couldn’t say no to that kid!
Spinning back to the lights, I pressed the pedestrian button and raced across the road as soon as the green walking man appeared. Sprinting through the foot traffic, I double-timed it back to my place.
I’d be a ragged, exhausted mess when I got there, but it didn’t matter. I had to get to Hannah Hospice as soon as I could. I had to rescue Crystal’s son.
Chapter Seven
Felix
It’d been a long, quiet day at the hospice. I’d done my homework because Mom made me, and then I’d sat and read to her. She was
one of those girls who had been born in the wrong era. That’s what she always said anyway. Although she’d only been a baby in the ’90s, her favorite type of music was ’80s and ’90s pop and rock. She loved reruns of MacGyver, Full House, and The Cosby Show. Her favorite books were Sweet Valley High. She’d never outgrown her love of those blonde twins, and so I spent most of my Saturday reading about Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield.
Yeah, it was painful, but it made Mom happy so I waded through pages of romantic crap and teen angst that felt over the top and silly.
“Chapter fifteen,” I murmured. Flipping the page of the tatty book, I was about to launch into the next scene when the door flew open.
The lady from last week rushed in. She was kind of skinny but had a round face. I had to admit she looked like Mom, but not as pretty. Her long hair was a shade darker and pulled into a military ponytail—not one hair was out of place. She had big eyes…brown, kind of like mine, except darker and more intense. There was something really uptight about her.
She stared at me and I couldn’t tell if she was about to cry or get mad.
It was really off-putting and I leaned away from her gaze, looking to Mom instead. Her eyes were stuck on her sister.
Yeah, I knew.
Mom told me last time that my aunt Cassie was coming to visit, but I didn’t want to believe her. After all the years of never knowing the woman, I wasn’t expecting her to show up, but then she did. The way she stared at me while I poured a drink from the cooler was weird, and then my chest deflated when she walked into Mom’s room.
I didn’t like the idea that I was somehow related to a crazy lady. I’d been all set to meet her, because that’s what Mom wanted. I’d psyched myself up for the big intros. I’d waited outside the room until Mom asked me to come in, sat through the snappy exchange wondering if I should burst in anyway. But then Crazy Chick just took off. I’d walked back into the room and found Mom lying there, bawling her eyes out.
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