Yeah, see, here’s the thing about becoming the head of a household when you’re only ten years old. You start having to deal with a level of stress most kids aren’t equipped to handle. Having had a decent, fairly chill life up until the point when my mom passed away and my dad lost his ability to act like an adult, I had no clue how to deal with all the emotions that came with having to suddenly take care of my three younger sisters. But remembering how my mom told me I was the strongest of them, I knew I had to learn, at least while my dad was going through his phase where he thought drinking was more important than being a father. Back then, I stupidly believed he’d eventually get over it and return to being the good, caring dad he used to be. But as days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, I realized that the dad I once knew might not ever exist anymore.

I was about twelve when that realization struck me. That was also the night I had my first breakdown. It was after a long night of taking care of Payton and Bailey while they were sick with the stomach flu. Londyn had spent the night at a friend’s house for a slumber party, so she wasn’t there to help me. I was supposed to be babysitting the neighbor’s kids for a few hours the next day to make a few extra bucks, cash that we were in desperate need of. So even though I’d barely slept, when morning rolled around, I refused to cancel.

Then, to make matters worse, right after the lady dropped off her kids, the power was turned off because our bill was overdue. My dad had told me he paid it; had promised on the moon and back. As I sat there in the shitty apartment that reeked of vomit and had no power with five kids running around, yelling at each other, it dawned on me like a punch to the chest.

My dad was never going to change. This terrible man who lied and cheated and stole was now my father.

As tears started to slip down my cheeks, I broke. Shattered. Fell apart.

I don’t remember much of what occurred after that. Just Londyn showing up from her slumber party several hours later. I had no recollection of anything that happened during the day. According to Payton and Bailey said I zoned out for hours, just staring at a wall, refusing to talk. Luckily, they had stepped up and took care of the neighbor’s kids, but they were beyond freaked out.

So was I.

But me being me, I assured everyone I was fine and waved it off as being overly tired and crashing. In reality, I was worried if anyone discovered I lost touch with reality for a few hours, I’d be locked up in a psychiatric ward. That fear only grew when I did some searching online and found out the symptoms were a stress-related breakdown.

I often wondered if it was the same thing that had happened to me when my mom died, but now that I’m having these dreams … maybe flashbacks, I’m not so sure that’s it. What I am sure about is that I don’t want to have another breakdown again.

After the first one, I knew I needed to find a better way to deal with my stress. At first, I took up kickboxing. But when I was old enough to get my learner’s permit, driving became my form of letting off tension. And in the past, the moment I slid behind the wheel and pressed my foot on the gas, the pressure almost constantly pressing down on my chest lightened.

Right now, though, the lightness isn’t coming to me.

“Goddammit,” I growl as I speed down the highway toward school.

As I near the rear end of a car moving at the pace of a freakin’ old person in the grocery store, I slam my foot on the gas, downshift, and make a quick pass around. Once I’m back in the correct lane, I crank up the stereo and crack the window, letting the warm morning breeze gust into the cab.

“Come on; just relax,” I mutter to myself. “You’ll fix this mess just like you always do.”

I sound less convincing than I want to. While I want to believe everything is fixable, this time around, I feel like I have no control over the situation. Like all these unseen forces are flying at me from all angles and there’s no way to avoid one without letting another smack me in the face.

Tears start to burn in my eyes, so I increase my speed, zooming well past the speed limit as I near the school. The houses and buildings lining the street blur by. But heart only thunders in my chest instead of relaxing. And my pulse only increasing when flashing blue and red lights flash from behind me.

“Shit.” I grasp the shifter. “I should’ve taken the back roads.”

For a split-second, I deliberate trying to outrun them, but then I remember how I need to behave so I can get guardianship over my sisters. So, I pull over and park beside the curb.

The school is only a few blocks down so basically every car that drives by probably belongs to someone I’m going to see at school today.

Great. I’m sure this little incident will only add to the whole flyer episode.

Sighing, I get my proof of registration and insurance from the glovebox and dig my driver’s license from out of my bag. Then I glance in the rearview mirror, trying to get a vibe on the cop approaching my car.

He looks young, maybe in his early twenties, and is decked out in a uniform. He’s got that douchebag walk, his legs a bit spread apart too far and his shoulder exaggeratedly swaying. He looks like he thinks he’s the shit, which means a big old fat ticket is going to be written for me.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try to sweet talk my way out of this.

Opening and flexing my hands, I plaster on a fake innocent smile as the officer stops beside my door and lowers his head to look into the cab.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asks.

He has a nice face, smooth angles, a straight nose. If Bailey or Payton were here, they’d nickname him Officer Yummy or something like that. Me, I’ll just refer to him as Officer Please Let Me Off the Fucking Hook.

“Because I was slightly speeding?” I say more as a question.

“Slightly?” He frowns. “I clocked you going thirty-seven miles over the speed limit. That’s pushing toward reckless endangerment.”

“Oh.” My fake smile fades. “I’m sorry. I was just …” I rack my brain for some dumb excuse to give him, like I’m on my period or something, but he holds up his hand.

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” he says. “I just need to see your license, registration, and insurance.”

I hand them over, noticing a raised scar on his palm, like someone slashed his hand open. Maybe that’s exactly what happened. Cops’ jobs can get dangerous, right? Especially for the cops in Honeyton, who are being bought off by Axel and Blaise’s father.

Crap, crap, crap. Double crap. What if this officer is being paid off and recognizes my name on my driver’s license? Will he know about Mel? Will he hand me over to Axel? Does Axel even want me? Blaise said he’d try to use us to get to my father but never gave me the specifics on how.

I stab my fingernails into my palms, struggling to surrender to the urge to just rev up the engine and take off as Officer—I glance at his nametag—Mklinney scans over my license.

He presses his lips together, lifting his gaze to mine. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

I dig my fingernails deeper into my palms, my gaze traveling to the rearview mirror as he walks away and climbs into his car. Then he takes out his phone and makes a call.

I tap my foot against the floor, twitchy and irritated with myself.

I should’ve just drove to school with the Porterson brothers. Then maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, I bottle down my pride and reach for my phone that’s in my bag so I can text Blaise. But Officer Mklinney returns before I can pick it up.

“I’m going to need you to step out of your car.” He hands me back my license, registration, and insurance card.

I toss them onto the passenger seat. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, looping his fingers through his belt loop.

Getting a bad-cop-I’m-about-to-do-something-really-sketchy-and-abuse-my-authority vibe, I peer around the area to see how many witnesses are around. A couple of people are wandering around the parking lot just to my right and enough people are driving down the road that if he took me somewhere, he’d definitely be seen. The real question, though, is how many people in Honeyton would do something about it? From everything Blaise has told me, my bet is not a whole hell of a lot.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I’m an officer of the law here in Honeyton.”

“Like that makes me feel any better,” I grumble as I shove open the door and climb out.

He signals for me to follow him as he hikes back to his vehicle. I begrudgingly obey, trying to remain positive and focus on the fact that he didn’t cuff me. But when we near the back end of his vehicle and a sleek, black car with tinted windows pulls up, my fear spikes.

Is that the car that was parked in my driveway this morning?

I slam to a halt, my boots scuffing in the gravel, and start to turn to run.

“Relax,” officer Mklinney says, sticking his arm out in front of me. “Mr. Porterson would just like a word with you.”

Mr. Porterson, as in Blaise’s father?

I eyeball the car. “About what?”

“Just about some stuff,” Officer Mklinney replies vaguely, putting on his sunglasses. “Look, you really don’t have a choice. Either you can get in the car or I can haul you down to the station and you can talk to him there.”

“Just talk, my ass,” I mutter as the back door to the car is opened.

No one steps out, which is both creepy and ominous. Maybe I should try to run. But my father attempted to do that once when he was being arrested and his ass got tased.

Opening and flexing my hands, I summon up every ounce of my courage and march up to the vehicle like I’m a badass girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone. Because it’s either that or act like the scared little girl I feel like inside. The one who wishes she’d broke down at the house and blacked out for a couple of hours because it’s got to be the better alternative than what’s about to happen to me.