Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I stand there stunned, not sure what to think, caught between happy that Sara Lynn got what she deserved and horrified at Ford’s sudden and sadistic violence.
Chapter 2
Kat
Twelve Years Later
Grandfather sits in front of a crackling fire in a high-backed chair. I hesitate in the doorway and watch the light flicker off the spines of hardcover books lined up on the shelves, off the ancient African masks and hunting spears, off the old Welsh axes and Viking helmets, until Grandfather clears his throat.
“Don’t linger, Kat. You know I hate it when you linger.”
“Sorry, Grandfather.” I head into his expansive office. It’s half workspace and half museum. Grandfather’s always been a collector and he likes to surround himself with his favorite objects when he’s busy doing whatever it is he does for the family in here. This is the heart of the Stockton home on the affluent outskirts of Austin, Texas, and Grandfather is the heart of the Stocktons themselves.
He looks at me as I slowly sit in the chair beside him, my back straight, my hands folded in my lap like I’ve been taught. His eyes are a pale blue, wrinkled, with swollen bags under them. His skin is loose and sallow. His hair is thin and gray. He’s in his eighties and not getting any younger, and though I’m twenty-five and could overpower him at this point, my grandfather still scares the crap out of me.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” he says as if I had any choice. “I have some bad news and I wanted to tell you in person.”
I sit up straighter and a thousand thoughts whirl through my mind, but he doesn’t need to tell me what this news is about. I already knew, even if I don’t know, because it’s always about one thing and one person.
My mother. My poor, poor mother. I haven’t seen her in a month and I’ve been waiting for this conversation, on edge for when I’d finally get called in to some room to get lectured by a member of the family—one of my aunts or uncles usually—for something that I have nothing to do with. I have no control over my mother, never have, never will, but they all act like her sins are my own.
It’s always been that way in the Stockton family. I used to think it’s because I’m not stick-skinny like my cousin, or because I have red hair, or because I have green eyes instead of blue, but it’s got nothing to do with how I look. No diet or hair dye can change what I am in their eyes.
A mistake.
“Your mother’s been arrested,” he says with a heavy sigh.
I go very still. I shouldn’t be surprised, but normally Mom’s pretty good about not getting thrown in jail. Usually, anyway. “Arrested? Are you sure?”
“She was picked up last night in Dallas and is currently in the city lockup. One of my friends from bridge club called earlier to tell me her name popped up in the system. Apparently, she was caught trying to steal from a jewelry store, and her accomplices threw her under the bus to take the fall. The charges look serious.”
My mouth hangs open. “Mom was robbing a jewelry store?”
“Yes, so it seems.” Grandfather rubs his face and sighs. “It’s times like this I’m still angry with your grandmother for making me give up cigars.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Grandfather isn’t upset because his daughter is in jail—at least not for her sake. Mom’s been doing this stuff for years and years, although this is the first time she’s actually ended up in jail that I know about. Usually Grandfather can call in a favor before it gets that far, and most people know the Stockton name well enough to keep Mom from getting officially booked anywhere. Mom’s been in and out of more rehab places than I can count, and at this point, I don’t know why anyone even bothers. Grandfather wrote Mom off a long, long time ago.
“What are we going to do?” I don’t know why I say we as if I have any say in the matter. Of everyone in the Stockton family, I’m the lowest of the low, and I have pretty much zero say over anything.
“I’m going to pay her bail, hire a good team of lawyers, and send her to the most remote rehabilitation clinic with the biggest walls and strongest locks I can find. Hopefully, they can keep her there until this blows over.”
“Right, that’s a good idea,” I say weakly. Mom at another rehab place. She rarely lasts long before relapsing. Her best sober streak was six months, and that only happened because a doctor told her that if she took more pills or shot more heroin, she’d end up dead. Eventually, she fell back in with her old junkie friends and disappeared for six weeks. I figured she’d never come back, but sure enough, she appeared one day, asking for money and another chance like always.