Page 3 of Never Trust the Living (Battle Crows MC 7)

Eleven years old

We were being moved again.

This time because Amon, my brother, had decided that it would be a great idea to try to sneak into our foster sister’s room and try to scare her.

By scaring her, he’d found pictures of her mother’s death, printed them out at school, and pasted them to the wall.

They’d been photos of the dead body covered by a sheet that’d been in the newspaper.

You couldn’t ‘see’ anything, but you could see something very specific in her hand, which was tattooed.

Needless to say, our foster sister knew who it was, and we did, too.

That had been flashed on every single news station in the lower states as they’d tried to find her serial killer.

And my brother thought it would be a great idea to scare her by pasting those photos on her wall. Then, a few nights later, drawing the tattoo on her hand in permanent marker.

Needless to say, after about two months of him torturing her, we were being moved.

Not just him.

We.

Because they thought brothers and sisters needed to stay together.

Well, let me admit something atrocious.

If I never saw my brother again, it would be too soon.

“Just you and me, eh, sis?” Amon asked cheerfully.

I nearly threw up when he put his arm around my neck and started to squeeze.

Then I was near passing out because he knew exactly where to restrict blood flow to my brain with his hold.

But I didn’t dare say a word, because I knew tattling got me nowhere.

Well, it did get me somewhere.

In a world of hurt.

• • •

Fifteen years old

I should’ve known that my birthday wouldn’t go well.

I was fifteen years old, and I’d learned the truth years ago—nothing good ever happened to me.

Nothing.

I should’ve remembered that.

Except, I’d had a dream that this day would be different.

Now that we were separated, and he was no longer a child in the eyes of the law, I would be able to live a life again.

I was wrong.

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