Page 134 of Pack Scratch Fever
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
“Did you really think I would tell my friends I didn’t visit my daughter while she’s in the hospital, Piper? Your mother is here, too.”
I sigh.
Great.
The click-clack of heels fills the room, and my mother enters. “This place has the worst coffee—ohgod, Piper, you lookawful.”
Just like my dad, she’s dressed in expensive, tailored clothes—a cream sweater, white pants, and a pink blouse. She judges me with scornful hazel eyes that lack any sort of compassion.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “I shouldn’t be in here long.”
My mom scoffs. “I hope not. You can’t afford to miss work, can you?”
I stay quiet.
“Don’t tell me you’re still at that rescue,” my dad says, sitting on the couch where Blair was last night. “It’s a waste of time. That’s what city taxes go to, Piper. Once you have a real job, then you can play with cats.”
Again, I look around the room for hidden cameras, convinced that I’m being pranked.
“Did you have a chance to look over the contract?” My mother asks, sitting on the edge of the bed with her purse. She eyes the folded pile of nesting blankets with a repulsed look.
She’s still processing that I’m an Omega, after all these years. She still doesn’t understand it, and she hasn’t made the effort to.
“Not yet. I’m in thehospital, Mom.”
“Yes, but you weren’t when I sent it. You should have looked it over that night.”
There’s no point in arguing with either of them. I learned years ago not to, so I just shrug. “Sure. I’ll look at it as soon as I get out of here.”
“Oh, actually,” my mother says, riffling through her large handbag and producing a manila envelope, “I have a copy here. You can sign it right now.”
I stare at her in disbelief.
She shakes the envelope toward me. “Open it. You can sign it now, since we’re both here.”
My dad watches expectantly.
“Mom,” I choke out, “I’m literally in the hospital.”
She fishes out a pen from her bag and shoves it in my hand. “I only need one signature.”
The machine beeps, alerting everyone that my heart rate has picked up.
I want to cry.
My parents didn’t come here to visit me—they came to have me sign the contract their lawyer drafted.
“I think I should have a lawyer look at this,” I whisper, and my mother slaps the envelope on the bed and sighs dramatically.
“Damn it, Piper,enough!” My dad yells, and I flinch. “Enough of acting like a child! Just sign the paper; we know you don’t have enough money for a lawyer!”
Tears fill my eyes, but I refuseto cry in front of them. “No.”
My father tilts his head back and scoffs. “Fine. That’s just fine, Piper. Because now wearegoing to sue you. We wanted to make this easy for you, but guess what?” He turns to look at me, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Now it’s going to be difficult. That money wasn’t rightfully yours, Piper. We’re going scorched earth now.”
I swallow, my throat dry. “That’s fine,” I croak.
