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I was there and managed to save myself, but I couldn’t save her.
I’m a monster.
A useless failure of a monster.
I should have died too.
Tate
Present Day
Fired.Again.
It’s not that I’m not good at my job. In fact, I’m great at my job. I worked my ass off in school to climb out of the cesspool I came from. To be something better than what I was expected to be.
To becomesomeone.
Only problem is, with a last name like Prince, you’re bound to attract a bunch of frogs. In my case, my most recent frog has made it his mission in life to destroy me.
I shudder at remembering the look of disgust on my last employer’s face. She called me a delinquent. A damn heathen. I wish I could say I was surprised, but since this crap kept happening on repeat, I calmly gathered my things, not at all shocked, went back to my lonely apartment, and then cried all of my woes to my cat, Funky.
But things are changing.
Well, one particular phone call was the catalyst of change.
A wealthy man named Nathan Park wanted to hire me—me!—to be the private therapist for his entire family on some huge compound they all live on. Apparently, they’ve all got issues and I’m their magical solution.
Me.
Tatum Oliver Prince.
Dread consumes me as I follow my GPS, making the turn down the road that will take me to my destination.
How long until I’m fired from this job too?
Nathan promised to be discreet and to pay me under the table. Not to mention, I’ll be given free room and board. My apartment will sit empty like a tomb, cold and welcoming for frogs, but free of me.
God.
Freedom is so close I can taste it.
So why the underlying panic?
Why the dread that’s consuming me?
Anytime something felt easy in my life, I was immediately proved wrong. And yet, I still keep believing my life will take a turn for the better. That I can be free of the chains of my past and actually find happiness.
I pass by three really nice houses, wondering which one I’m supposed to be living at. But none of them boast of the address I’m looking for. I continue down the road until a monstrous, dilapidated home comes into view, sitting at the bottom of Park Mountain like some grumpy gargoyle.
My heart rate picks up.
Of course I’d have to live in the one that looks haunted.
“Funky, we’re home,” I say, voice tight. “I promise we’ll be safe here.”
Lies.
Poor Funky.
