This is ridiculous. I don’t need some sweater-wearing idiot to help me get over the death of my father—if he even was my father. It’s only been a few weeks since we got to bring Ro home, and I should be there with her, not with some psychiatrist. I don’t know why Trevor brought me here, like it will change anything.

I wish I could see my father one last time to ask him if he regrets poking the bear next door.

Being shot would have been a bitter pill to swallow for him, but it’s probably best for him that he didn’t make it out of that grave breathing.

I feel for my brothers, though. Well…Camden. He’s young, and as much as I want to be a man he can look up to, the murky water in my veins worries me. What if someone pushes me too far? I came close once…

Walking around the room, Trevor sighs loud enough for me to turn to him and raise a brow.

“What?” I bite.

“Come and sit down,” he says. “You’re not even giving it a chance.”

“I don’t need to be here.” I shake my head and throw my ass into the seat next to him.

This place has no air in it. It’s hot as fuck.

Trickles of sweat bead and run down my back. I hate losing composure, but the sticky air is agitating me.

I want to be at home with Rowan. She doesn’t eat unless I cook for her.

Grief counseling and keeping your attendance up at school will assure the courts Hayden is a capable guardian. Hayden is taking on a hell of a lot for a boy his age, and you didn’t want to come and live with me and Lucy, so here we are,” he grinds out, picking a piece of invisible lint from his pants.

His stupid sandals look ridiculous, but he doesn’t give two shits what anyone thinks, so I keep the thought to myself.

He offered for Cam and me to go live with him, and although Cam could benefit with a man like Trevor raising him, it’s too late for me. I don’t need a father figure now. I’m grown and can take care of myself.

I wouldn’t leave Rowan either. I can’t. She needs me. And Cam wouldn’t leave me. Eric was never around anyway, so it’s not like we’re suddenly alone. Even when he was present, his mind was preoccupied. Nothing’s changed apart from Hayden being stressed the fuck out and trying to navigate this new role he’s been forced into.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s not about you. I just don’t want to leave my brothers,” I lie, and it comes too easily. Our species is a disappointment to me. Tell them what they want to hear, offer a compliment here and there, and they’re putty.

He straightens in his seat and rests a hand on my shoulder. Putty.

“I know, but this is important, so just take it seriously. Please?”

“Fine.” I hold my hands up in surrender, and he smiles with a nod. Putty.

The door opens, and a woman enters. She’s young. Not my young, but younger than Trevor. A tight ponytail pulls the skin on her face upward, making her eyes appear cat-like. She’s pretty. A little skinny, hard edges and a flat ass, but Hayden would call her fuckable. I smirk and look her over like she’s standing naked before me—just to put her on edge. Not a sweater-wearing idiot after all.

A crackling of energy zaps through my veins when a tinge of color creeps up her neck.

I don’t know why, but I get a buzz knowing people are uncomfortable around me. Maybe it’s fitting that I’m here to see a psychiatrist.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Blackstone,” she greets Trevor, then sits behind her desk and looks over at us with superiority.

Her eyes drift to mine after lifting from my lips, and a smile tilts her own. “You must be Nixon.”

“Must I?” I simper. Trevor nudges me with his arm, and I exhale.

He’s annoying, and I want to nudge him back with the sharp edge of the letter opener laid out for anyone to take on the doctor’s desk. Is she really that dumb? Or is it a test? I’m not here because I’m violent, but surely it’s risky of her to leave such an object readily available should I be. Maybe it’s only my brain that sees these things. Perhaps, to her, it’s merely to open letters and not a potential murder weapon.

“Nixon” Trevor growls low under his breath, but we’re sitting three feet from the doctor, not ten. She offers him a tight smile.

Fine.

“Yes, I’m Nixon,” I say, placating him.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from your uncle. He’s going to wait outside while we have our sessions. Are you okay with that?”

She speaks to me like I’m a child, and it angers me. She would probably have a field day dissecting why that is. I may only be coming up on seventeen, but I’ve been a man a lot longer than I should have been. The world is fucking ugly, and we have to grow up a lot quicker these days.

“Fine.” I shrug. Trevor stands up and nods to her, then points a finger at me with a warning glare I find comical.

Once the door closes behind him, I track my gaze back to her to find her staring directly at me. “I’m Dr. Winters. Do you know why you’re here?” she asks.

“My neighbor murdered Eric, my dad, because he was fucking said neighbor’s kid.”

She doesn’t flinch away from my crass words. Instead, she stands and gestures with her hand for me to join her over in the corner of the room, where a blue chair sits opposite a green couch. The walls hold framed certificates and a few pictures of Dr. Winters surrounded by other professionals all wearing fake smiles.

The room is stuffy as fuck. There’s a smog in the air, and I want to tell her to open a window, but refuse to show her it’s bothering me. Pulling my T-shirt from my body, I waft some air against my skin, then follow her and sit on the couch. It’s softer than I thought it was going to be. I almost sink into it, making me feel small and consumed. I sit up straight and lean forward so I’m teetering on the edge and not drowning in the fabric.

“You have a lot of anger inside you,” Winters states, but she still pauses for a response.

“Is that a question?” I ask, resting my hands on my knees.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Your uncle tells me you also lost your mother—”

Lost her, like she was a wallet I dropped at the mall.

“He’s not really my uncle,” I interrupt her.

Her eyes widen marginally. “Oh, well, I’m sorry. Would you prefer I call him Mr. Blackstone?”

“Why? Are you going to be bringing him up a lot?” I counter, and she frowns and dips her head. Her cheeks flush, and my mouth pops open a little before curling into a smug smile. Doc has a thing for Trevor. No wonder he brought me to see this doctor. It’s nice to be wanted. Being wanted is an addiction. No matter how many people offer to love us, if it’s not the one person we want it from, it’s never enough.

“My mother left us a long time ago,” I tell her, changing the subject and relieving her of her embarrassment.

“But the circumstances weren’t what you thought. How do you feel since learning the truth?” she asks.

Ha. That’s a loaded question. How do I feel? Numb.

“I wasn’t talking about when she disappeared. She was gone long before then.”

I swallow and look to the window dominating half the back wall. Greenery covers most of it from the outside, but there’s a sliver of light streaming in from above. Why the fuck doesn’t she have it open? She must like making her patients sweat. Or maybe she likes the clammy feeling on her skin. Between her legs.

“Do you need some water?” she asks. Is she testing me? I shake my head no.

Fuck you, I won’t break.

“Do you?” I ask, looking at her, dropping my eyes to her crotch and raising a brow.

Her calm falters briefly and she swipes a hand down her skirt and wipes her brow.

“What did you mean by ‘she was gone long before then’?” she asks, ignoring my question.

I refocus on her face and stare her down. When the silence hangs between us, she looks at her watch, and says, “We’re on your time, Nixon.”

A slither of annoyance ripples through me and defiance is my first defense, showing her, opening those wounds is a dangerous game - one she might not be ready for. She has no idea I’m glad Eric is dead and was relieved to know my mother hadn’t run off after all. That she wasn’t out there somewhere making someone else miserable. I didn’t always have this darkness inside me. My soul became tainted, murky with other people’s darkness, their sins raining down over me like acid, saturating me, infecting my core.

Eight years ago… Age eight.

I’ve been sick for the past two days. Momma’s kept me home from school, but she tells me I’m not allowed out of my bedroom because she doesn’t want to get sick. I hear her through the walls. She’s crying again, and I feel bad for her. I want to give her a hug, so I gently open my door, willing it not to squeak like it usually does. The carpet beneath my feet mutes the sounds of my footsteps as I make my way across to her room. The door is open, and I can see her sitting on her bed, hands covering her face as her body shakes. She looks so small. I come up to her chin already, and I’m only eight. She always tells me she doesn’t know where I get my height from, but my dad is tall, so maybe it’s from him. I move toward her, and she sniffles and swipes her hands down her cheeks to dry up the tears.

“Mom?” I ask, and she stands, looking out the window. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you think Mommy looks pretty today?” She turns to me and rubs the palms of her hands down her skirt to smooth out the crinkles.

“Yes,” I tell her. She asks me this all the time, and one time when I told her I didn’t like her top, she screamed at me and tore it off and stomped on it. She reminds me of when my little brother Camden isn’t allowed a cookie before dinner.

“Well, your dad didn’t think so,” she snaps. “He has some new young girl working at his firm. No wonder he’s always coming home late. I was that young once, and perky, then he wanted kids, and look at me!” she shouts, pinching at her tummy. I frown, not understanding. Look at what? And who cares that someone is working with Daddy. Mom doesn’t have to work, and she hates it. My friends’ mommies like not going to work.

“I’m feeling better,” I lie, hoping she’ll stop pinching herself.

A noise sounds from outside, and she looks back over to the window before taking me by the shoulders and ushering me back to my room. “Stay in your room until I say you can come out.” When I don’t answer, she shakes me. “Are you listening to me?” My head hurts and her shaking makes the stomach ache worse.

“Yes.”

She closes my door, and I listen for the echoes to fade. I run over to my window and look out to see Robbie mowing our lawn. He lives down the street and Dad pays him to do things around the house because he’s saving for some fancy college. He sometimes kicks the ball around with us, but he and Hayden had a falling out over Hayden kissing Robbie’s little sister. She’s older than Hayden, but he still wasn’t supposed to do that with her. I saw them kissing once. Mom says Hayden is just like our dad, but I think he looks more like Mom. I’m bored inside my room and want to get some fresh air. I tug at the handle for the window and frown when Mom walks out across the lawn and Robbie smiles at her. She rubs her hand down his chest like Robbie’s sister does to Hayden and walks over to the pool house. He follows her, and they go inside, but I can still see them through the windows. I frown when they kiss. My stomach feels bad again and I think I’m going to be sick, so I rush to the bathroom. The pain is worse today. I wish Cam didn’t have to be in school. He’s younger than me, but he would bring me water and play video games with me if he were here. When I get back to the window, I don’t know whether I should look or not, but I don’t understand why Mom would do that stuff with Robbie. I peer out again, then quickly jump back and close my curtains.

I’m only eight, but I know what they’re doing is naughty and I shouldn’t tell Dad.

“Nixon, do you want to tell me what you mean?”

I drag my attention from the past and focus on Dr. Winters. We’ve been sitting here in silence.

“Times up, Doc.” I get to my feet and stride from her office.