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PROLOGUE
JAZZ
It’s funny the things you think of when you’re dying. Like, I wonder what kind of birthday cake Ainsley got? I was hoping for chocolate, maybe with a raspberry filling... although, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Or... it’d be really cool if I was walking on the beach right now, feeling the ocean tickle my toes as the waves crash against the shore. I bet some local going out for a jog will find my body. Haven’t you ever noticed that? Runners always find the dead bodies. I can see the headlines now:
Teenager Stabbed to Death in Quaint, Mountain Town
It’ll shake up this community temporarily, but before you know it, I’ll just be that poor girl who died by the water’s edge. Goosebumps scatter across my flesh as a chill courses through my body. Damn, it’s cold up here. Of course, the one time I actually wear a dress, I get stuck out in the wilderness.
What really pisses me off—and yes, I have every right to be pissed as I lie here bleeding out—is that I can’t stop thinking about the fact the people responsible for this will get away with it. They’ll graduate high school, go off to college, eventually get married and pop out pretentious little babies, never looking back. Never knowing what it’s like to have consequences for their actions. These people will always live in a world where you can solve any problem, get away with any vile act, by throwing a little money around.
My body sinks into the ground, the smell of mud and copper assaulting my senses. I really should get help, but moving isn’t exactly an option. Screaming isn’t one either—I’ve already tried that, and all I have to show for it is a raw throat. My head lolls to the side, eyes falling to the glassy surface of the lake as the fingers on my non-broken hand flutter over my abdomen, unsuccessfully trying to staunch the flow of sticky blood.
As I stare unblinkingly at the full moon reflecting off the lake’s surface, I realize the irony of my situation. I’m no stranger to violence—I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by it. When you’re impoverished, or craving your next fix, you’d be surprised what people will do when desperation sinks in. That’s why my mother taught me to be vigilant, to take precautions. I took her lessons to heart and managed to survive over seventeen years without incident.
It fucking figures that when I actually do become a victim of violence, it’s in a place drenched in wealth.
I suppose that’s what I get for trusting a liar.
CHAPTER ONE
JAZZ
“Here we are.” My social worker, Davina, shifts her rusty old Ford Focus into park.
I stare out the windshield at the sprawling mansion before me. “Wow, you weren’t shitting me when you said he was rich, huh?”
Davina’s brown eyes light up in amusement. “You might want to watch the language around your father, Jazz.”
“Don’t call him that,” I snap.
She gives me a sympathetic look. “Honey, I know this is hard, but—”
I scoff. “You think?”
Davina is undeterred by my interruption. “Jazz. Listen. I know you miss your mom. Any girl in your situation would. But I’d hate to see you screw up an opportunity like this because you have something against rich people.”
“I don’t have anything against rich people,” I argue. “I have something against a man who can obviously afford child support but would rather pretend his kid didn’t exist.”
“Who said he was pretending?” she challenges. “He claims he genuinely had no knowledge of your existence until your mother approached him shortly before her death.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe it. Whenever I asked my mom about him, she was always so cryptic. She said he wasn’t a good man, that we were better off without him, and that’s all I needed to know. Why in the hell would she go to him after almost eighteen years? Why didn’t he ask to meet me right away when she did supposedly inform him that he has a kid?”
“Jazz, I can’t speak for your mom, but I can assure you we checked him out.” Davina sighs. “He’s an upstanding citizen and successful businessman. Philanthropic, even. He didn’t hesitate for one second when we contacted him. Charles Callahan is offering to give you a better life than anything you’ve ever known. You’ll have opportunities you’ve never had before. If you don’t care about yourself, think about your sister and how much you could improve her life with access to resources like this.”
“Just because we were poor doesn’t mean we had a bad life. I always felt like anything would be okay as long as we had each other.”
She gestures to the giant house in front of us. “I know that, honey, and I respect it. Your mom was a rock star for making the best out of a crappy situation. But she’s gone and you and I both know your sister is not in the most ideal place right now.”
Damn it. She’s right. My seven-year-old sister, Belle, and I have different fathers. Hers has been in and out of her life since birth. He only seemed interested in being a parent when it was convenient for him. He agreed to take full custody of Belle when the state contacted him though and with their limited funding, they practically threw her at him.
He may not have a criminal record, but the man can’t hold down a job to save his life and he’s a raging alcoholic. Davina knows I want to fight for at least partial custody when I become a legal adult, so I can have a bigger say in how she’s raised.
The problem with that is, realistically, no judge will just hand over a child to an eighteen-year-old with no home or job. Plus, there’s bound to be exorbitant legal expenses that I need to consider. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I’m going to make it happen. I know without a doubt, my mom would want this.
I squeeze my eyes shut briefly to ward off the tears. God, will this overwhelming sadness
ever wane? It’s only been a month since my mom died but it hurts just as bad—if not worse—than it did when that police officer showed up at my door. There’s this constant weight on my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
Davina pats my shoulder. “I know it’ll be an adjustment, but you’ll be okay in time. We haven’t known each other long, but I know you’re strong and you’re smart. You can get really far in life on those two things alone.” Davina nods to the front door. “Now, go on. They’re waiting for you.”
“Why couldn’t he pick me up from the group home? You know that’s not giving him any brownie points, right?”
“Sweetie, we’ve been through this. Your father is out of town on business, but he’s scheduled to return tonight. The house manager is there to welcome you on his behalf.” As if on cue, the wooden double doors open and a woman wearing a black dress with her hair in a severe bun steps out onto the covered porch. “There she is now.”
The house manager. That’s right. What the hell does a house manager do anyway? I get out of the car, pulling my duffle bag from the back seat. Before I shut the door, I lean down to say goodbye. “Wish me luck.”
Davina smiles. “I don’t think you’ll need it, honey, but good luck. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
I step back and close the door. “See ya.”
I watch as Davina pulls through the circular driveway before heading back the way we came. A throat clearing draws my attention away from the black car fading in the distance.
“Miss Jasmine, I’ll take that bag for you.”
I hitch my duffle higher on my shoulder and turn around to address the woman. “Please call me Jazz, and no thank you. I can carry it just fine.”
Deep wrinkles form around her mouth as she frowns. “If you insist. Please, follow me, Miss Jasmine. We’ve been expecting you.”
“It’s Jazz,” I mumble, irritated she so blatantly ignored my request.
It’s painfully obvious how out of my element I am the second I step foot onto the polished golden floors. A double staircase stands before me, attached to a wide balcony with intricately carved iron balusters. The ceilings are the highest I’ve ever seen and the furniture is sparse but expensive looking. I look down at my worn denim and second-hand Chucks. The contrast between them and the marble beneath my feet is laughable.
“Right this way,” the woman says, interrupting my musings.
I follow her up the stairs and down a seemingly endless corridor to the right. I briefly wonder if I should be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in case I need to make a quick exit.
“Your room is right do—”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She gives me a stern look over her shoulder before continuing her trek to wherever we’re going. “You may call me Ms. Williams.”
“And what do you do here, Ms. Williams?”
We finally—finally—stop at a door near the end of the hallway.
Ms. Williams turns the knob and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “I’m the house manager. I ensure everything is running smoothly according to Mr. Callahan’s specifications.”
