It’s a nice mantra, one that reminds me that no matter what, murder actuallyisillegal, and I can’t claim self-defense against the man responsible for the—ironic—murder of crows currently tearing up the bag sticking out of my garbage can.
I’m not even angry with the birds. They’re just doing what comes naturally to them. But I would like to destroy the dickhead who lives behind my house.
If I’d known who lived there at the time I was house hunting, I wouldn’t have picked this place. I would have found another cute, woodsy neighborhood all the way across town. Maybe even in another county.
Hell, maybe in another freaking country if it meant not living anywhere near North Wright.
And I blame my brother for not telling me that his obnoxious-as-fuck best friend lived right around the corner with his backyard almost touching mine.
And Ialsoblame him for not telling me that North was currently feeding these flying beasts with a taste for the chicken-and-dumplings leftovers Easton keeps bringing over. I like the chicken and dumplings. I hate that these goddamn rats with wings raid my garbage every time I throw out what I can’t eat.
Which, sadly, is a lot these days.
But it’s a little horrifying that these birds have a taste for, you know, bird meat. They seem to go wild every time I have accessible chicken in my trash, which is nightmare fuel for my already exhausted, traumatized brain.
I’m pretty sure if I complain about it to North, though, he’ll start feeding them extra chicken, and pretty soon, my entire yard is going to be covered in pitch-black feathers and piles of goopy green bird shit.
I turn and grimace when I realize that the railing leading up to my house is drenched in the stuff.
“Murder is illegal,” I mutter. I use the other railing to brace myself as I make my way up to the covered porch, my hip aching on the way. The pain isn’t unfamiliar, but this feeling of rage is. “Murder is illegal, and it’s bad, and if I kill North, Easton will be sad.”
I don’t like making my older brother sad. I’ve spent most of my life trying to make him proud, and he’s spent the last few years—in spite of my extreme protest—taking care of me.
Not that I had much choice after the accident. I could barely lift a spoon to my mouth, and my parents were so horrified at the thought of their adult son needing help like a toddler that they packed up and moved to the fucking Florida Keys. So Easton took me in during my recovery and has only just felt comfortable letting me live on my own.
Well. Mostly on my own. He checks in with me at least twice a day, and I’m pretty sure he’s paying the neighbor to play spy.
“Bird-watching, eh?” Speak of the damn devil.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see my neighbor standing at the edge of his yard with his oversized coffee mug in his hand. I know for a fact that it came from that tourist-trap gas station on the edge of town because my husband—former husband—bought the same one the week we came to visit Easton right before, well…
BeforeIthappened.
I threw the mug away in a fit of rage after I was able to process the fact that Liam was dead. One of the many things I regret doing in the weeks after I was released from rehab to an empty house and a shattered life.
And six years later, it still hasn’t gotten any easier to see that damn thing in his hand, though I’ve never told Mr. Baylin about that. He’s a nice guy—if not a little overly friendly and definitely spying on me for Easton’s peace of mind.
But he’s eighty-nine and bored. I might be the world’s biggest asshole, but I’m gonna let him have that one.
“The guy behind us has been feeding them,” I say.
“Oh yeah. North. Nice boy. I told him if he throws shiny rocks out in the yard and gives them puppy kibble, he’ll have friends for life.”
So. He’s responsible. I’m still going to blame North, but goddamn it.
“Well, I’d better get inside,” I tell him.
He turns and squints at me from behind his very thick lenses. “You got a job, son?”
He asks me that a lot, and he never remembers.
“I’m—I was—a historian,” I tell him.
That was my former life. I quit the museum the month before I turned twenty-two to try my hand at writing. It was after Liam told me he was tired of seeing me miserable all the time, and I believed he was trying to be supportive back then. His faith in me, whether it was real or not, helped.
I got agented and had four full manuscript requests, and then three months later, Liam was gone, and I couldn’t remember what came afterCin the alphabet.
By the time I remembered it wasD, the agent offers were gone, and so was that dream.
