Page 1 of Wicked Games

Chapter 1

Caleb

It’s done.

I expect a weight to lift off my shoulders, the same as every other time I did this.

Over the years, I’ve systematically destroyed Margo’s world. It’s become something of a secret sport—me versus her. The game continued when she moved here, when she was suddenly in my path once again.

But the first time, we were twelve. It took me two years to stew, thinking she had just gotten away without retribution, to realize that if anyone was going to make her pay for her sins, it would be me.

Of course, at twelve I didn’t think like that. I just wanted her to hurt.

I took a taxi. I’d overheard my uncle talking about her, where she was. He, too, kept tabs. But he didn’t show up at her door like I was planning. I approached her foster mother with a rather twisted view of the truth. The woman just stared at me, her eyes round, as a kid laid out Margo’s crimes.

I left their front porch but hung around for the fireworks.

I paid the taxi driver to park at the curb. His meter ticked onward, but I didn’t give a shit. I was akid. Money was a far-offconcept, sure, but I also knew we had enough of it to cover this adventure. Her social worker arrived at the house, talked to the parents. She carried out a trash bag and set it in her trunk.

Margo came home from school only to meet the social worker. Hell, the foster mom had been so disgusted, she didn’t even want to be there.

I leaned forward, wanting to soak up her every reaction. Her dark hair was in two braids that swung across her back. There were little pink bows in them. She seemed fine. So opposite of me. She was smiling, but it faded when she realized who was on the porch.

The social worker broke the news.

Margo didn’t cry.

That was disappointing.

She didn’t cry the next time either, when I found her again.

Each time she carted out her garbage bag, which I learned was full of her clothes, she kept her shoulders back. Her chin up. At fifteen, I sat in my uncle’s car a house down from the fosters’ and tried to suck an ounce of gratification out of it.

The game turned into: How far can I push until she breaks?

Ruin her in one way, and she might recover. Ruin hereveryway, and she’ll crumble. Mind, body, and soul.

I began hanging around longer to see if she would lose control. Not close enough for her to see me—I’m not an idiot. In all the times I fucked with her, whether it be through the school she attended or the foster home, she only slipped once.

When she was torn away from siblings.

Once in seven fucking years.

It felt good to see her cry, but odd. Something cracked inside my chest. Her breaking was breaking me, too. I had let her stay at that home for a while. Two whole years of idyllic bliss while I tried to forget about Margo Wolfe.

I drowned myself in hockey. I even fucked her ex-best friends. But I couldn’t shake her. She resided in the back of my head, popping up at the worst times.

Senior year was approaching, and it was time for Margo to return home.

The Bryans were perfect. It wasn’t their fault I had that card up my sleeve. As I told the Bryans: they were a common subject of my aunt and her social circle right after the accident that stole their daughter’s life. My aunt went to church and prayed for their family, but then she’d come back with her friends, gossiping like schoolgirls about where the drugs could’ve come from.

Was it true? Did Amber Wolfe, Margo’s mother, kill their daughter?

Maybe.

Hell if I know.

This isn’t about them—this is about Margo and her resilience. It’s about ruining another good thing for her, while being up close and personal to watch the fallout.

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