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PROLOGUE
Rayna
Five Months Ago . . .
I’m damn certain things can’t get any worse today, but the feeling in the pit of my stomach is telling me something bad’s going to happen.
Ever since my ex-stepfather was released from prison, I’ve had a horrible feeling. My brother, Dag, keeps telling me to be careful. He tells our mom the same thing, but she seems to think our stepfather’s a changed man.
She’s believing what his counsel told the appeals committee so he could be released early. I don’t want to shit on her opinion, but she’s being naive. My brother is part of a motorcycle club and sees the cruel realities of the world every day. I might not be in a gang like he is, but I know the world isn’t so forgiving, either.
For fuck’s sake, the reason Loren went to prison in the first place is because he tried to kill our mother. All I remember is Dag telling me to hide in the closet. I think I just turned four when it all went down. Dag was a teenager, ten years older than me, so he had some grasp about what was going on. Loren didn’t succeed in killing our mother, but he did rattle us. It was a horrible experience.
Still, there’s a deep, gut-wrenching feeling in the bottom of my stomach. Today hasn’t gone according to plan at all, and I’m trying to not let it be ruined because someone pissed me off. I run a hand over my face and sigh. “Fuck.”
I’m lucky enough to work for myself, but the downside is I can’t pawn off my problem clients to customer support for them to deal with. Nope, I have to professionally speak to the jerk who just called me a money-hungry cunt.
I design websites for a living and have a strict system for how I get information from my clients. Whether they’re in the restaurant industry, a lifestyle blog, or they sell their products on their website—I can help them.
This guy didn’t want to fill out half of my forms and told me to go with what I thought was right. All he gave me was his restaurant’s logo, so I did my thing and created a beautiful website based on the style of an Irish pub that it is.
He didn’t like it. He told me to refund him for everything he paid because it was horrible. He obviously forgot about the contract he signed, which states no refunds will be given for clients who don’t complete all of the required forms.
I politely reminded him about the clause in the contract and asked him to fill out all of the forms. Once he finishes those, he needs to email me, and I’ll work on another website draft for him.
After dealing with my difficult client, I decide I need to get out of the house, so I’m making my way inside the grocery store right now. I always head to the dairy section first, so I make my way over there and find something disappointing.
“Crap, they’re out of milk,” a woman comments from beside me.
There are only three options: almond, cashew, or oat milk.
I don’t have the slightest clue which is the better of the three.
“Yeah, and I have no idea which one of these to get.” I point to the three options.
“Mmm, my daughter says oat milk is good. She gets it in her lattes all the time. I need something, and I’m not driving another twenty minutes to get the two percent I need.” She grabs a bottle of oat milk and walks off, convincing me to do the same.
I don’t feel like driving to the next nearest grocery store either, so I grab a bottle of the oat milk and place it in my cart.
I check my phone to see if my mother needs me to grab anything extra for her, but there are no new messages. I always give her a heads-up when I’m a few minutes away from the store. That way, if she’s forgotten anything, she can let me know.
The store is very crowded today, but it’s typical for a weekend. Especially on Sunday. I used to think coming here on the weekends would be less crowded, but it’s the opposite.
The sound of chatter and the wheels of the grocery carts fill the air, adding more chaos to my already chaotic day. The store has just been renovated, so where there used to be cracked linoleum, there are now stained concrete floors.
I slowly begin checking everything off my list, moving around the store section by section. The longer I’m in here, the more crowded it becomes. It’s the end of July, and there’s an odd amount of pumpkin-flavored everything gracing the shelves, but I shouldn’t be surprised. They always do this before it’s officially Fall. Hell, the day after Halloween, the Christmas decorations and candies are being put out.
Before I know it, I’m done shopping, so I pull my cart over to an area where there isn’t a lot of traffic and dig my phone out of my back pocket. I unlock it, tap on my mom’s name, and bring the phone to my ear as it rings.
It rings, and rings, and rings. No answer. This isn’t like her at all. She always answers. There’s that gut-wrenching feeling that something is going to go horribly wrong today. I can’t seem to shake it.
It eventually goes to her voicemail, so I grab a couple of small things I know she enjoys and then head to the cashier. Within five minutes, I’m in the parking lot, loading up my trunk. I put away the cart and check my phone once more while I get in my car.
Still nothing.
Maybe she’s in the shower.
Maybe one of the neighbors came by, and they’re having a chat with her.
