Page 3 of Repairing the Wreckage

Confused and groggy, I bolt upright.

Shadowy darkness surrounds me. The barest hint of the rising sun peeks around the heavy gray drapes. High in the corner of the room, the steady red, blinking light reminds me I’m being observed like a science project.

“Fuck,” I groan. Still stuck in this fucking mansion having my every move filmed for the dumb reality show I signed up for.

I fall back against my pillows and stare at the ceiling. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a dream about Molly, only to be shocked into the cold reality that I’m locked in this golden prison.

Embarrassed, I flick my gaze to the camera again. Pointed right at me. The soulless red light blinks, almost as if it’s mocking my misery.

I hope to fuck I haven’t been talking in my sleep. I turn my head and glance at the photo on my nightstand, touch my finger to the glass over Molly’s face.

Miss you, Muffin.

God, I hope I win this thing and get home to my girl. Make up for all the time we’re missing together.

Someone bangs on my bedroom door.

For fuck’s sake. What now? We’re not supposed to be downstairs until ten a.m.

“Stonewall!” Bang, bang, bang.

“What?” I shout.

“Office. Phone call.”

Phone call? From who? What office?

I hurry out of bed and open the door. “A phone call for me? Who?”

Deadass—my fellow contestant and a certifiable dumbass—stares at me with a dopey expression and shrugs. “Cops? I didn’t ask questions. Jordan asked me to come get you and here I am.”

“All right. Give me a minute.”

I should slam the door in his face but my mind’s going over all the possibilities. Did something happen to Molly? Remy? We’re not allowed any phone calls. Why’d they allow this one?

Stone-cold fear grips me.

It has to be my mother. Why else would the police be involved?

Dread settles in my stomach. The last time we spoke, I was an asshole to her. It’s not like we’ve ever had normal mother-son conversations, though.

Five minutes later, one of the producers I recognize—Jordan—meets me.

“Follow me, Griff.” His pinched, squinty expression seems extra annoyed this morning.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Johnsonville Sheriff’s Department needs to speak to you.”

Home. Last I knew my mom was down in New Jersey. Maybe it’s not about her. “What happened?”

“They wouldn’t tell us. Need to speak to you.” He stops in front of a shiny, dark wood door I’ve probably passed a dozen times but never bothered to open and see what’s inside. “We can’t monitor the call, but same rules apply. You can’t discuss the show or?—”

“Give me a fuckin’ break. You think my local sheriff’s office gives a fuck about the filming of some random reality show they’ve never heard of?”

An extra wrinkle forms on his forehead and he shifts his gaze. I’m too worried about what might be wrong at home to give a fuck about interpreting his expression.

He presses his palm to a flat square above the doorknob and the door clicks. “Yeah, well, I’m obligated to remind you about the rules any time there’s outside contact.”

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