Page 87 of Wicked Sins

Looks like Candy decided to stay in the pool house, so I don’t bother putting my clothes back on—not as if there’s anyone around to see me in my boxers.

How the fuck did she come to the conclusion that I’d screw her? Does she have any idea how drunk she was? I mean, I was pretty pissed, but I’m not like those fuckers at Sean’s party.

I snort quietly at myself as I pad down the hallway, headed for the downstairs entertainment room.

Outside Emma’s room, I come to a halt.

There’s no glow under her door tonight.

There never will be again.

I open her door and push it wide. It’s not her room anymore—just an empty shell. Too neat, too tidy. There was always something out of place when Emma was inside, even if the cleaning lady had just finished.

When was the last time I saw her? It had to have been the day we left to go to Happy Mountain, but for the life of me, I can’t even pull up that memory.

It’s so cliché, but honest to God, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

My lungs fill with hot lead.

I blamed Dad, but it could just as easily have happened with Candy.

It might even have happened with me.

But itdidn’t. It happened on Dad’s watch, and that’s something I’ll never be able to forgive him for.

Moving as fast as my legs can take me, I leave Emma’s room. I grab a soda from the fridge in the kitchen before heading into the entertainment area and switching on the massive flat-screen television up against one wall. I don’t bother with the lights—the screen does a good enough job of lighting up the bare bones of this place.

No point in lowering the volume, and that’s why I don’t hear my stepsister come up behind me.

When something brushes the back of my neck, I jerk forward and twist in my seat, glaring up at Candy.

“Sorry,” she mouths, shrugging. Her eyes flicker to the television. “Can’t sleep, huh?”

I don’t bother replying. Instead, I turn back to the TV and kick up the volume a few notches.

She just keeps standing at the corner of my vision. When did she come back inside the house? From the floral scent wreathing her and her crisp PJs, she had enough time to change her clothes and take a shower. Her hair is damp and pulled into a braid, her face glowing like she’s just washed it.

The perfect daughter, if you rule out the fact that she’s an alcoholic with an attitude problem.

Eventually, she comes to sit on the couch with me. I want to tell her to fuck off and go find somewhere else to mope, but then I hear those words again.

Can you help me?

I catch her glancing over at me before hurriedly looking away. I shift on the seat, and reluctantly grab one of the throw blankets neatly draping the back of the couch. “Wasn’t expecting company,” I say, tugging the blanket over my lap.

“It’s okay,” she says. A moment later, she takes the other blanket and pulls it over her shoulders.

In a snap, I’m back in the bathroom all those months ago, our first day of school.

The first time I saw her bruises. I should have realized back then that if she’d drank enough to injure herself like that, then she might need a fucking therapist.

She huddles into the blanket, drawing it tighter and tighter around her. But she doesn’t say anything. Oh no, not the proud and stubborn Candace Fur—Candace Bale.

“Should have dried your hair. Then you wouldn’t be so cold.”

“Joah?”

I don’t know why she decided to call me that, but anything’s better than Jo. I glance up at the ceiling, and then lower the volume. I’m watching on-demand, but that’s no excuse for her to interrupt the movie. “What?”

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