“Because you’re smart as fuck, apparently.”
Shaking her head, she turns back around and quickens her steps toward her door. “Goodnight, Kingston.”
“Hey,” I call after her, continuing when I realize she isn’t going to turn around again. “Now that we’re friends, maybe we can have slumber parties and shit.”
Silver opens her door and steps inside, still not honoring me with another glance. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
She slams the door behind her, leaving me with the biggest fucking smile on my face. My unhealthy obsession with Nurse Silver might just help me survive this place.
PHASE II
WAXING CRESCENT MOON
“The moon has awoken with the sleep of the sun, the light has been broken; the spell has begun.” — Midgard Morningstar
BURIED FEARS
SILVER
“Delivery, Miss Silver.”
I look up from the paperwork spread out on my desk and smile at Marlo, the shipping-and-receiving manager. “I wasn’t expecting anything on Sunday.”
He gives me that look—a look that’s reserved for the difficult ones of the bunch who always seem to need the unobtainable. Kingston’s face flashes in my mind, and a feeling of guilt immediately follows it. I already decided that I’m moving past my initial impression of the cocky jock. He is who he is, and after he walked me home last night, I realized he isn’t the total lost cause I thought he was. His intentions are in the right place, and that’s all that should matter.
“One of the guys had a special request. Here.” He sets the white paper bag on the desk.
“A special request?”
“Yup.” Marlo shrugs. “Guy paid me two hundred bucks cash. Can you believe it? I wasn’t going to turn down that offer.”
“Someone gave you two hundred bucks? For what?” I make a face, wondering who in the hell would need something that badly. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has sent Marlo to run an errand, but what on earth could be so important that someone would pay two hundred dollars cash? Then I roll my eyes at my own comment when I remember who we’re dealing with this week. Celebrities. Football players.
“Can’t say,” Marlo answers with his hands up as he takes a step back.
“Why are you giving it to me, then? He paid you, not me.”
Marlo waved a hand apologetically. “I made plans with my daughter today, and I didn’t want to just leave it on his doorstep. Do you mind making sure he gets it?”
I lean back and stare at the bag, curious beyond belief about the contents. “All right. Fine. I’ll get it to him.” I grab a pen and hover over a blank sheet of notebook paper. “What’s his name?”
“Kingston Scott,” Marlo says with another step back. “Nice guy.”
Of course. I drop the pen. It won’t be a problem to remember that bit of information. I wave goodbye to Marlo and wait until he’s gone to look down at the white bag. It’s completely open, giving me a clear view of the top of the shiny black paper box inside. It only takes a split second to recognize the gold logo on top of the packaging. I push the bag away like it’s burning me.
What the hell?
I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Why wouldn’t Kingston put in a special delivery for magnum condoms? Nothing he does should surprise me anymore.
Letting out a frustrated groan, I fold the top of the package closed so I can’t catch another accidental peek at what’s inside. Then I go back to work. At least I try. But my day isn’t just drowned out by thoughts of Kingston. That would make my life far too easy, and it’s never been easy.
When the phone rings just before lunch hour, I’m not expecting the familiar deep voice on the other end of the line that says, “Hiya, Sylvia. Happy birthday.”
But the moment I hear it, my senses cease to function. I’ve had a mental countdown for the past eight years, each day weighted by the knowledge that although I ran and hid from my past, it would always be there to haunt me. It would always be waiting for me until my twenty-fifth birthday, the day my inheritance would be released to me.
Sylvia, 8 years ago
Long after my heartbeat stops thumping between my ears, I freeze my rocking, hold my breath, and listen with intense concentration. It’s difficult to make out much past the pain that lances through my arm and the throbbing beneath my quickly swelling skin, but I can’t stay here forever.
After a slow and shaky inhale, I release my hold around my bent legs and open my eyes. I’ve been pinching them closed so hard for so long that it takes a minute for my vision to return. Once the blurring clears, I’m faced with the aftermath of my compulsive decisions.
She’s nothing but a crumpled heap on the living room floor with jagged pieces of a shattered vase sprinkled around her. Blood drips from her forehead and pools on her precious white carpet. The reality hits me, and I slap a hand over my mouth to cover the sob that slips past my throat.
I did this.
I hit her.
I killed her.
Using my good arm, I scoot backward, away from the crime scene, as far as I can go before an obstacle stops me—a chair, I think—but my eyes are still glued to the lifeless body beside the grand piano, so I can’t be sure.
My insides feel like they’re being ripped in two, with one half wanting to make a desperate dash for the door, and the other half demanding that I call 911. Then I remember what started it all.
My father’s unexpected death should have been my biggest nightmare, but I quickly found out that losing him was just beginning. I could never have expected what came next.
The threats.
The legal battle.
The screaming.
The abuse.
All because of money that she feels is rightly hers. She was married to my father for what—two years—before he died? We were all blindsided by his death, but while I was mourning the life of my last living parent, my stepmom was furious beyond belief. He had left her nothing but a small life insurance policy and just enough money to pay off all of the debt she helped him rack up during their short marriage. The life insurance money wasn’t even enough to cover the big fancy home she forced him to purchase after they got married. Not to mention the three sports cars that take up most of the space in the garage, or the expensive timeshare package they hadn’t even used yet.
My father’s best friend, Harvey, was the executor of his will and the trustee to my trust fund. That trust fund contains every last bit of my father’s fortune—and it will go to me once I turn twenty-five. In the end, the only thing my stepmother received in the deal was me. So, for the past eight months, I’ve been stuck with her. Lucinda. The evil stepmother who belongs in a Grimm retelling of Snow White rather than in the reality she’s forced me to live in. She’s made it no secret that she wants every last drop of what I cannot yet claim. I never expected for it to turn violent, though.
With a quick shake of my head, I pull myself to my feet and look around. The duffel bag I attempted to leave with hours ago is sitting near the front door. My plan was to sneak away while she was still asleep, but that plan was destroyed when she stomped out of the kitchen and intercepted my exit, her face filled with a rage that terrified me.