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It was a crispy, unappetizing mess. My eyes watered and burned from the smoke that rose up from the pan. Shame bubbled in my gut. If I couldn’t make something as simple as a boxed meal with directions, how was I supposed to make anything that was actually appetizing? Anything we could actually eat that wasn’t out of a bag, a frozen box, or take-out?
Dejected, I threw the mess into the trash and decided to settle for cereal for the night. I’d try again tomorrow; maybe I’d have more luck then.
I’d spent enough time on my homework that the sun was already going down. Grabbing the garbage bag and tying it off, I headed out to the curb, not wanting to wait until it was fully dark. This neighborhood still creeped me out at night.
I tossed the garbage away, having no intention of staying outside longer than necessary—especially not with one of the Lost Boys living across the street. I didn’t even let my eyes linger on the house across from ours; it felt as though if I even dared to think about him, Bishop would emerge through the front door of the dilapidated house like he’d been called from the shadows.
What did catch my eyes, however, was something much different.
The car that rolled slowly down the street stood out among the rusted, dented, scrap-metal junkers that were common in this area. A shiny black Bentley with darkly tinted windows. It clearly didn’t belong to anyone on this block, let alone this neighborhood. It looked like—
My heart jumped. Maybe it was someone from my old life, coming to take Mom and me away from this place. Maybe it was Dad, somehow released from jail already, coming to surprise us.
A dozen hopeful thoughts raced through my mind, and I wanted to believe that every one of them was true. That my horrific first day was the only day I’d have to suffer through at Slateview High. Quick as the hope came, however, it was dashed against the sidewalk pavement just as fast. The car drove right past me, the fading sunlight glinting off one of its mirrors like it was mocking me for daring to dream that I might be pulled out of this hell I hadn’t asked to be put in.
I watched it, my shoulders slumping, as it drove a few doors down. It stopped in front of a two-story house and idled softly. Something in me felt like I shouldn’t be watching this, but I was rooted to the spot as I watched a figure emerge from the front door of the house.
One of the Lost Boys.
The big one—Kace, with the light blond hair and muscles that looked like they belonged on a professional fighter more than they did a high school boy—strode down the walkway to the car. He was shirtless; even in the waning light, I could see the dark, colorful marks of his tattoo. Bold. Beautiful.
Dangerous.
The passenger side window rolled down, and Kace leaned over and spoke into the car. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but there was a smirk on his face. He said something else, nodded, and then reached into the car, pocketing something that was given to him.
Then, he looked my way.
It was a split second of eye contact. A split second that had my face heating as his gaze burned into mine. The way he looked at me—the way all the Lost Boys looked at me—was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. It felt like he was looking through my outer layers, past every mask and defense I had, into the very heart of me.
I shivered, tearing my gaze away from his and abandoning all pretense of poise as I sprinted into the house.
A soft noise filtered through the door as I slammed it shut, and I swore it was the sound of Kace laughing.
The next morning, I spoke to my father for the first time since he’d been taken away. He and Mom both insisted that we not make visits. Neither of them wanted me at a prison—didn’t think it was proper. I suspected, to a degree, that Mom simply didn’t want to face the idea of people seeing her going into a prison, being in a place with actual, dangerous criminals. A place that her husband certainly didn’t belong; it was undignified.
That, I could understand. But not hearing from him was hell.
He called early in the morning before I left for school. We put the phone on speaker and sat in Mom’s bedroom, our heads slightly bent together. It was the closest I’d felt to my mother, both physically and emotionally, in a long time.
“Elizabeth, Cordelia. It’s good to hear your voices.” Dad’s words were thick as they came through the speaker. He sounded tired. Mom remained quiet, blinking rapidly, so I immediately spoke to fill the silence.
“Hey, Dad. How are you? Is everything alright there? I’ve been so worried—”
“Cordelia, please. It’s early, and I haven’t got a lot of time to speak. They dole out phone time like it’s more precious than gold.”
I visibly shrank back. Not that he could see my reaction, I realized with a strange, weighted sadness.
“Sorry.”
“Anyway. I called to check up on the two of you. According to Isaac, you’ve been settled in a rental home?”
Isaac was my father’s attorney, and I’d bet the little money we still had that he and my father had spoken every day since Dad’s arrest.
“Yeah… it’s different,” I said softly when Mom still didn’t speak up. “It’s nothing like home—”
“I’m aware. But it’s what we’re working with until I get out of this place and clear everything up. It shouldn’t take long.” God, I wished I had his confidence. “The whole thing is just a misunderstanding. Isaac is looking into it. He thinks it’s a political maneuver to smear my name and undermine both me and my business associates.”
Who would do something like that?
