Page 145 of Josephine and Clay

A white-hot bolt rips through my leg, mean and bright enough to steal the air out of my lungs.

“Son of a…”

I clamp my jaw shut, gripping the mattress hard enough my knuckles pale.

I can’t move.

Everything in me goes still around the pain, the way you go still on a bull right before it decides which direction it wants to ruin you.

Then it eases.

I reach for the crutches leaned against the wall and haul myself upright.

The room tips a little. Or maybe that’s me.

I stand there breathing through it, sweat already damp at the back of my neck, hating every inch of this. Hating the cast, the ache, the weakness crawling around under my skin.

I need something to do.

Anything that isn’t staring at the ceiling, or thinking about Josie’s name glowing on my phone and the fact I haven’t known what to say to her since my mood soured again.

She’d pulled me out of it for a while. The barn dance. The night at her place. Breakfast the next morning. Hell, by the time Nash called, I’d almost forgotten anything was wrong.

Turns out distraction only lasts so long.

My gaze shifts toward the dresser. The envelope is there.

Still.

I’ve looked at the bank documents at least a dozen times since I found them. Maybe more. The numbers don’t change. The account doesn’t make any more sense. My name sits there in black ink, official and clean and impossible to argue with.

Clayton James McCoy.

Account beneficiary.

Deposits made for years.

Nobody ever mentioned it. Nobody sat me down and told me money was being set aside in my name. And that means they had a reason for keeping it from me.

More importantly, it means he had a reason.

I stare at the envelope until my jaw starts aching from how hard I’m clenching it.

Then I move.

Down the hall, slow and bitter, crutches digging into the floor with every step. The house creaks around me, old wood settling under afternoon heat.

The McCoy house has always had too much memory in it.

That’s the problem.

I make it to the office. The desk is old and heavy. Scarred along the edges.

Dad used to sit here late at night with a ledger open, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee gone cold, the other tapping a pencil against paper.

I remember standing in the doorway once.

Couldn’t have been more than twelve.