Page 32 of Wicked Games

“Yep, floors sticky with beer and other things.” Phoenix zipped his bag. “That’s what she’s picturing. She also worries about everyone’s sleep getting disrupted because the baby will be less than one by then.”

“Shit. It still blows my mind. Out of all of us, I thought I’d be the first with a kid.” Secretly, I was glad it wasn’t me. I was less ready than my brother.

“Goes to show prior experience with long-term relationships doesn’t count for shit.”

I couldn’t even fuck with my brother on that one. “I guess when you meet the right one, nothing else matters. Aspen is amazing, bro. Don’t fuck it up.”

“You’re fucking things up enough for all of us.” Damon’s dark-blue eyes glittered. “Get your shit together, and you better let us know when you need us. No more of this I’ll-deal-with-it-on-my-own bullshit.”

I fucking loved my family. Nothing else needed to be said.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WINTER

Monday classes came and went without me in them. It was a bad idea to skip so early in the semester, but I couldn’t bring myself to go after last night, when Landon had peppered me with questions about my family. The past had haunted me too much to focus on anything else.

My hands hovered over the keys of my laptop as I stared at a picture of McMillan Lake. The building’s name wasn’t hard to pull from my memories, but so much was fuzzy. Throat tight with the usual fear that strangled me, I got the address of the Sea Mist Apartments and typed it into my phone’s map app. That year would be the beginning of reconciling with the darker times in my life. I glanced to where I’d stashed the shoebox full of Mom’s letters and snorted.Within reason.That wasn’t something I was ready to tackle.

Keys in hand, I headed to my car, ready to face things I hadn’t wanted to. I still didn’t. But Mom’s parole hearing loomed overhead. I needed to understand what had happened and try to figure out the parts I couldn’t remember.

The half-hour drive went by in a blur. I followed the GPS until I reached my destination. Parked in front of a run-down apartment building not far from the lake, I turned off the car and took in the scene.

The place was a dump—a brown building with paint peeling on the trim. The front steps were cracked, and the black wrought iron railing had a few broken and rusted spindles. The landscaping was sparse and tired looking. It matched the building perfectly. The only out-of-character spot was one of the balconies. Flowers lined the railing, a burst of color in otherwise drab surroundings—an oddity in Section 8 housing.

I exited my car, shut and locked the door, then leaned against it while staring at the building I’d lived in with my mom and sister after Dad had died and before moving to Los Angeles. Emotions swelled, weighing me down. I had some decent childhood experiences but very few I could remember. The bad ones eclipsed the good.

Another balcony had towels, pants, and shirts draped over the railing. A bright-red kid’s toy table and chairs occupied another. Nothing spoke to me from my past. The psychologist said the trauma I’d suffered shielded me and made everything before I moved away fuzzy. She said the repressed memories could come back, or some of them.

The longer I stood there, the more a hazy image surfaced of my sister and me walking up the front steps. We were young. Maybe eight or nine years old. It had to be from when our dad had died. Everything had gone to hell after that.

A year older, Summer had taken the brunt of everything—Mom’s rage and helping me in too many ways. But when it came to survival, we did our best to care for each other. We were equal in that—until I’d failed her.

We’d lived on the third floor, one apartment from the flowery balcony. It would do me no good to knock on that door.

Another fortifying breath and I pushed off the car to trudge up the sidewalk to the building’s front door. When I turned the handle, it wasn’t locked, and I shoved it open. It was dark inside. Noise leaked beneath the doors and down the stairs. It was mostly quiet, but I could remember when it hadn’t been, when people had argued, a dog had barked, and the drone of TVs had filled the hallway. Most people were at work.

Something was there for me. I could feel it. The balcony with the flowers was the second one on the left side. With that information, I climbed the stairs, found the coinciding door, and knocked.

The low murmur of a game show played somewhere inside. I didn’t have to wait long before a scuff sounded and the door cracked open, a chain the only thing that barred me from the older woman with a mop of short, curly gray hair, dark eyes, and a pale, papery face peering at me from within.

Thin lips formed an O, and the door shut in my face. A second later, the sound of metal scraped wood, then it opened without the barrier of the chain. “Winter?”

“You know me?” As I said it, images flooded my mind. All of them good and happy with her.

“Of course I do. You’re the spitting image of your mama.”

My smile froze, but I fought the repulsion of being compared to the woman who had killed my sister. It wasn’t Mrs. C’s fault, and I pushed through the emotions. “Ah, sorry. I remember. Hi, Mrs. C.”

“Oh hush, call me Estelle.”

My shoulders dropped an inch as I stepped inside her apartment. It was warm and homey. Worn, flowery furniture with handmade throw pillows and knickknacks filled the space. Lemon permeated the place from the cleaner Estelle liked to use, and it was one of my favorite smells even then. Summer and I had always felt safe there.

But she hadn’t always been available to watch us when Mom didn’t want us underfoot. Estelle had watched her grandkids at their house on the other side of town a few days a week. A chill danced over my skin despite how overly warm it was in her place. It was one of those days when Mom had dragged Summer and me to the lake.

“Come visit, dear.” Mrs. C motioned to the couch.

I sank onto a soft cushion, tugged the throw pillow forward, and hugged it. Nothing had changed inside, and it gave me a level of comfort.

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