Page 150 of Wicked Games

I huff. “You hate when I mention him.”

“That’s because I hatehim,” he whispers. “And I just… if you knew, you’d hate him, too.”

I spin around. I have to crane my neck back to meet his gaze. “That’s just it—if I knew. I want a chance to know. And I need to talk to him about the Bryans.”

“About them adopting you?”

“Well, it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?” I run my hands up and down my arms, suddenly cold. “The idea of a happily ever after.”

He pauses. “Do you think you’re not going to get one?”

I haven’t thought that far ahead. For the last seven years, minus an odd dream or two, it was just one foot in front of the other. Onedayin front of the other. That’s how we survived in the homes that sucked, in the homes that were great with an expiration date, in the group homes cramped with too many kids.

Problem kids.

I never got that official label, but I almost did. And then there really would be no future for me to hunt down.

So, no. I never thought about a happily ever after.

“I can’t apply to NYU,” I say. “It’s outside my budget. Maybe a nice local community college?—”

“Bullshit,” he says.

“What?”

He motions for me to go into the kitchen. I don’t budge.

“Caleb, you can’t just dismiss the fact that I literally have no money?—”

“I think I can,” he says.

He bends down and scoops me up, an arm under my knees and the other at my back. I let out a little yip, throwing my arms around his shoulders.

“What—”

“Just let me,” he mutters. “Just once, okay?”

He carries me down the basement stairs.

He’s wrong. It isn’t just once. He’s had spontaneous moments of kindness since I returned to Emery-Rose. They werehard to recognize at first, but he really changed after finding me in the woods. Seeing me hurt by someone else’s hand…

Maybe that’s what this is. A premature apology for whatever damage my father’s going to cause.

I hold on to him and let him do what he has to do. It’ll make both of us feel better before tomorrow.

After I visit my dad, I’m either going to walk out in one piece or be broken by whatever my father has to say. Either way, I’m getting answers. I’ll be changed.

This is a goodbye to the Margo I was.

Am.

Will never be again.

“Shh,” he whispers. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not,” I murmur, blinking at the ceiling. “I just have something in my eye.”

“Both of them.”

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