Page 1 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

Prologue

Atticus

Twelve years old…

All I feel is the blood—the blood that has crusted over my skin to feel like a warm blanket on this chilling January night, almost like a saving grace, so I don’t freeze to death out here. Maybe I’d be better off.

Boston's cold winter air bites at my flesh through the shattered windows, sending shivers over my body that I can’t quite feel. I’m strapped to my seat, my shoulder burning and chest tight, staring at the mangled forms of my parents. I can’t look away, no matter how badly I want to.

My mother’s bright blue eyes glisten, opened wide as if it’s on the tip of her tongue to tell me to watch out, to be careful, to brace for impact. I can still hear the echoes of my father’sshouting before we crashed. Of course, my mother won’t say a word now—her neck is broken, bent at an inhuman angle that no one could survive. There’s a large gash in her forehead that disappears into her hairline, her beautiful long blond hair now matted and dark with blood.

Black ice is what they’ll say the cause was. I’ll be the only one who knows that isn’t the truth. They were fighting—they always fight. I couldn’t tell you what it was they were arguing about this time, just that they were.

Dad was angry over something, and Mom was yelling back to defend herself—like she always does. I’ve gotten in the middle of it before, but it never mattered, so I learned to go to another place when they would shout at each other. It’d always pass. Soon enough, they’d smile and act like the perfect family again. Only this time, that won’t happen. It can’t because they’re both dead.

Crunching, metal bending, screaming, cracking… sharp memories assault my brain like little ice picks, reminding me of the trauma I just went through. An event that will no doubt change my future. Even at twelve, I can understand that. It won’t be the first time a life-altering moment has happened in my life, but maybe this could be a good thing. Maybe witnessing this will shape my future in a better way. Maybe it will allow me to let go of the resentment of being given up for adoption, and my brain will hold on to this traumatic event instead. Or maybe it’ll add on to that resentment and my anger will be tenfold.

Can’t be sure, because right now, I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing but the freezing air biting at my fingertips. My nose burns from the cold, the smoggy smell of Boston lingering in my nostrils.

I’m lucky to be alive.

They’ll all tell me that. The doctors, nurses, all the adults. They’ll tell me over and over that it’s a good thing I was wearingmy seatbelt—Mom always makes sure I do, though she never does. Had we not slammed into the truck the way we did, she would have been launched straight out of the car because of it. Dad too. But somehow, that didn’t happen. They’re both in the car with me, their bodies twisted together in some freak show that would haunt most people’s nightmares.

I think I’ll sleep great tonight.

Mom still stares at me with an empty look, reflecting how I feel. I’ve always been empty. Always will be, too, I guess. If this can’t incite enough emotion to have me crying, nothing will. I’m convinced of that now. I’ve always known I was different, but now it’s solidified. It’s a fact.

I look closer at my mother’s face, taking in the long gash on her head. I think that’s her brain I see in there. Leaning closer to get a better look, I hiss when there’s a sharp pain in my left shoulder. I blink away the pain, gritting my teeth and reaching my uninjured arm out to touch my mother’s face. It’s warm, the blood still wet.

I drag my fingers up her cheek to that gash on her head and press down. Soft, squishy. Definitely not bone. It’s fascinating. How many twelve-year-olds can say they’ve touched someone’s brain? Not many. But now I can. Not that I have anyone to share this news with. I don’t have friends. If I did, I doubt they’d want to hear about me touching my mother’s brain.

I bring my hand to my face, looking at the pads of my fingers that are covered in my mother’s blood. It’s a strange yet intriguing thing—life. How easily it’s created, yet how easily it’s taken away. In just the flash of red taillights, a slippery road, and an angry father.

A faint sound breaks the silence—sirens, distant but getting closer. I should be scared, heartbroken. Sad. These were my parents for the last seven years. That’s more than half my life. They chose me, they wanted me, if only for a moment.

There aren’t many things I remember about the orphanage, but I remember one thing: once you turn five, your odds of being adopted decrease significantly. It wasn’t said to me in those exact words, but I read between the lines. Even at that age I understood more than I should have. Mom said I was forced to grow up too quickly. I think I grew up just as I was meant to.

I dreaded my fifth birthday when most kids were celebrating and counting down days to get a measly cake from the bakery around the corner who donated them because they felt bad for the orphaned children. My birthday came and went, the chocolate cake like ash in my mouth, and each day after that got harder and harder, knowing the orphanage would be my life. I still hate chocolate. But thentheycame.

Bridget and Baxter St. Claire. They were like angels who showed up to sweep me away from the shitty orphanage in Iowa to take me to the big city, Boston, where I would make something of myself. That’s what Dad said.

They were starting a new life, and so was I. We did it together. Except, there was something missing. Maybe not from them; they gave me everything they could. The best clothes, the softest mattress, the most delicious food, and as much love as they could muster from within their broken hearts. It’s just me. I’m missing something. I’m broken. A piece of me was left in Iowa. Not in the orphanage, though. No, it was before that. Five years before that. It’s not something I can explain, it’s just… there. A glaring dark hole that eats everything I try to fill it with. An actual black hole, maybe.

My mother’s face comes back into view, and for a split second, I dart my eyes to my father. I can hardly see him, his body hidden by the seat in front of me. I always sat behind him so I could look at my mother’s beautiful face. It was better than looking at his. No, he wasn’t an ugly man, but he had an ugly soul. Sort of like me, but in a different way, I guess. He doesn’thave the urge to hurt people. At least, not physically. He hurt my mom all the time with his harsh words and hurt me with them by not using them at all. I would never do that. I don’t want people to cry or be sad. I just want them… dead.

Oh, how fragile life is—to alter it, to take it away. Toendit. In one brutal second, everything just goes away. Like the snap of your fingers or the deep honk of an eighteen-wheeler’s horn echoing in the Sumner Tunnel.

This moment is pivotal for me. It’s important. But not for the reasons everyone would think. This isn’t the moment my life changes over devastation, over a traumatic event that ruined my life. No, this is the moment I realize that I am not like everyone else—and accept it.

Chapter One

Atticus

Fifteen years old…

The car jerks to a stop and I get out before Ingrid, my case worker, can say a word to me. The last thing I need from her is another pep-talk on how to act right. She, like all the other adults I talk to, should just accept the fact that I’m not a good kid.

I yank open the back door to pull out my duffel bag and backpack. They’re light, considering they hold everything I own, other than the clothes on my back and the crumpled photo in my shoe. I learned long ago that stuffing things in your pocket doesn’t keep them safe, so I started putting important things in my shoe instead.

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