Page 2 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

I move up the walkway, Ingrid’s heels tapping on the cement as she hurries to reach me. Before I can step onto the stained-wood porch, she rounds me and stops in front of me.

“You have to behave here, Atticus. We’re out of places to put you at this point. It’s bad enough we had to beg this family to take you.” She pins me with a dark stare and lowers her voice even more. “They’re one of the good ones.”

Her hair is a frizzy mess, pulled back into a knot that looks like it’ssupposedto be messy in an artistic way, but only looks like a bird made a home in it. Her mascara is clumpy, and she has more lipstick on her teeth than her thin lips.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “Got it. No one wants me.”

She frowns, huffing out an annoyed sound. “It’s your own fault. If you would just act right—”

I stare at her blankly, not having a single word to say to that. Words are pointless when you’re a kid like me. No one listens to a troubled kid who was given up for adoption once and orphaned some time later, then bounced from foster home to foster home for beingunmanageable.

I’m always told to behave, to act right, to just do what’s asked of me. But I’m not stupid. None of these people want me. They’re only in it for the money and the power trips. Why the hell should I do what they want when all I am to them is a paycheck? May as well make them earn that money.

“I’m serious,” Ingrid whispers harshly. “You’re going to end up in another group home if you don’t get your act together.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“After what happened in the last one—yes.”

She’s talking about me being housed in a group home with a staff member who turned out to be a pedophile and was raping all the girls that came in. He’d drug them and have his way with them. It only came out because one of the girls didn’t actuallyconsume the drink he made her—though he thought she did. He tried getting into her pants, and she freaked out.

“No one touched me,” I say with a shrug.

He only wanted the girls. And since I was so fortunately born with a dick between my legs, I was of no interest to him. Guess I’m just lucky like that.

“How you can be so cold is beyond me. Those kids were your friends,” she hisses.

No, they weren’t my friends. Not even close. They hated me and made sure I knew it. Just like every other kid I’ve met. Adults don’t like me. Kids don’t like me. Hell, I don’t even like me half the time.

I don’t argue with Ingrid because it’ll just lead to another lecture. Another adult trying to drill things into my head that they don’t understand. Is there an age when you forget what it’s like being a kid? If so, I wanna skip that age.

“Can I go inside now?”

She holds my gaze, tapping her expensive shoe on the cement before nodding and moving out of the way. I stop at the front door, and she pushes the doorbell. It takes a few seconds for a smiling middle-aged woman with strawberry blond hair down to her shoulders to greet us.

“You must be Atticus,” she says brightly. “What a handsome young man you are. Please, come in.”

I step into a large living room that takes up the front end of the house. It’s suffocatingly warm. It’s nearly spring and from here I can see the big black letters against the green screen on the temperature panel reading 75°. It’s 70° outside, why the hell are we blasting the heat? This is issue number one of a long list I’ll keep locked away in my head.

It’s no longer weird for me to step into a stranger’s house. I’ve danced this dance before, been to a dozen houses where I’m not wanted. They’re all the same, but with different smells, differentdecor, and different layouts—people who look different, but all act the same.

The white walls are covered in photos of smiling children and her with some blond guy—probably her husband. Everyone looks happy. Psychotically so. I mean, a ginger and a blond making babies? That’s the work of the devil right there. Or maybe they don’t have any children of their own and it’s why they’re “doing the work of angels,” as some have said.

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Lisa,” Ingrid says in a hushed voice. I roll my eyes, frowning at the picture of some kid holding up a large trophy.

“It’s truly no problem. We have an open bed, and he’s welcome here.” Someone moves up beside me. It’s Lisa, smiling at the wall stupidly. “These are some of the children we’ve had over the years. We love traveling and doing things together as a family.”

Family? Sounds gross. But I turn to her and give her my best smile. I’ve found it’s the most fun to play nice for a while, so they think I’m a good kid. As if she doesn’t already have an opinion of me in her head, after being begged to take me. Still, I’m told I have one of those politician smiles that people trust. Yes, even at only fifteen.

“Come on, I’ll show you to your room,” she says, putting her hand on my upper arm. I jerk away, out of her touch.

“Oh, he doesn’t like to be touched,” Ingrid says, stepping forward with her arm outstretched as if she’ll have to protect me. She couldn’t protect a fucking ant.

“I’m so sorry,” Lisa says, a strange emotion crossing over her eyes.

I haven’t quite gotten down all the emotions that people go through, considering I feel practically none of them. I’m learning, though, and most of the time I’m a quick learner, but everyone is different with how they express their feelings. They experience and show emotions differently, and so I haveto spend some time with them before understanding them. Though, this has nothing to do with my affliction to being touched. I just don’t like people in my space.

“How about his room?” Ingrid suggests when Lisa doesn’t move.

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