She doesn’t stir at my words.

  She never moves anymore. She lies on the bed with her eyes closed and tears streaming or watching television with a hollow stare. She goes through the motions of living but isn’t living. Gets up. Goes to work. Comes home.

  She doesn’t talk and when she does it’s a whisper. It’s as if Mason took her voice with him when he died.

  She barely eats. In the past month I’ve learned to get by. I know how to reload the EBT card now. What stores to go to where the food’s the cheapest to use it. I’ve taken over the cooking and the laundry. The bill paying. The living for both of us.

  I lost both Mason and my mom that day. I’m just not sure which one is harder to accept. Mason because he’s actually gone or my mom because she’s here and doesn’t see me anymore.

  “I think it’s the detective.” Move. Respond. Tell me you hear me. “Okay. I’ll speak with him.”

  I close the bedroom door and pick up a few things on the way to the door. Detective Martin stands on the other side when I open it.

  “Holden.” His smile is genuine, if a bit sad. It tells me all I need to know before he says another word.

  There is no news.

  There is nothing to report.

  Mason’s murderer is still enjoying his life.

  “Sir.” I clear my throat. “Would you like to come in?”

  “It’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on your time.”

  “Anything new you can tell us?”

  He sighs and then opens his mouth and shuts it. He looks down and then back up before he finally speaks. “You haven’t seen the Times article yet, then?”

  “What are you talking about?” It takes everything I have to stand there and face him rather than run to my computer and search in our local newspaper for whatever he’s talking about.

  “Good. I’m glad. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  “Hear what?”

  “A source leaked information on the case.”

  “So there is information? What is it?”

  “The case has been closed. The powers that be determined that it was all an egregious mistake. Your brother darted out in front of the car. The driver didn’t have time to react. He didn’t even realize he’d hit anyone until he got home and saw his broken front headlight.”

  “What do you mean it was all an accident?” My voice rises in pitch, my head shaking as if I didn’t hear him correctly.

  “Exactly what it sounds like. Sometimes things like this happen—tragic accidents—and there really isn’t anyone to blame.”

  “But there is. The driver. He hit him. He killed him. The passenger got out and looked at him. Then they drove away. Mason never rode in the street. He was on the sidewalk. I know he was on the sidewalk.…” My voice cracks as my head spins and tears threaten. “This isn’t right.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “You know it’s not right. The look on your face says it.”

  “I wanted you to hear it in person.” His smile is sympathetic. “There’s nothing more I can do.”

  He gives a nod.

  “What about the lighter?” I think of Rhett Rothschild. “I mean, the owner—”

  “The owner has agreed not to press charges against you.”

  “What?” The word is a shrieked syllable marred with confusion. “What the hell do you mean he’s decided not to press charges?”

  He eyes me, clearly not thrilled with my outburst, but doesn’t reprimand me outright. His voice is soft and placating as I glare at him, demanding answers. “They know you stole it when he accidentally left it in the main dining room.”

  “And what? Grabbed it when I went out to help save my brother and dropped it? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  This can’t be happening.

  It can’t.

  “Other club members saw you with it in the days before the accident.”

  “This is unbelievable.” I shove a hand through my hair and pace back and forth in the small space. My gut churns. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” My teeth clench and hands fist as my head rages with fury. “He was the passenger of the car.”

  “There was no passenger. If you read the article, you’ll see that.”

  “And you’re just believing them?” My heart feels like it’s exploding in my chest. My head feels like it’s detached from my body.

  “What you should be is arrested for petty theft but considering the situation, the lighter’s owner—and the country club itself—have decided not to press charges.”

  “Big of them.”

  “You should be more than grateful that they’re going to let the matter go, even let you keep your job so long as this doesn’t get brought up again.”

  “Wow. That’s … so them.”

  Entitled fucking pricks.

  Rhett. He wasn’t driving but he sure as shit got back in the car and didn’t help.

  “You believe that bullshit?” I ask.

  Detective Martin gives me a placating nod. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Accidents happen sometimes and they’re no one’s fault.”

  “I think you need to leave,” I say when I finally find my voice again as my body trembles with rage.

  He meets my eyes again and then heads back down the sidewalk and toward his car parked near the very spot where Mason died.

  The article.

  It’s only then that it hits me about the damn article. I’m at my computer in seconds, cursing the shitty internet speed for taking its sweet-ass time to load. Once it does, I forge my way past the Times’ paywall so I can read the article.

  The story is short and succinct.

  Why waste ink on a poor kid who was killed, right?

  * * *

  No charges have been filed in the hit-and-run death of a twelve-year-old in the Fairmont area last month. Both the chief of police and the circuit solicitor have declined to file charges, citing the accident as just that—an accident. Witnesses who stated the car jumped the curb have since recanted their statements to say the youth rode his skateboard between parked cars, darting out in front of the white Mercedes driven by seventeen-year-old Chadwick Williams of Westmore.

  * * *

  Chadwick Williams.

  I know that name.

  Even worse, I know the prick. Mr. Polo Shirt and Chinos with the shitty jokes about my mom and entitled everything.

  Rhett’s friend was the driver.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I can picture him clearly. His grating laugh. His condescending tone. His arrogant demeanor.

  My hands fist as I stare at the words. They blur as anger owns every single cell in my body. It was him? I shake my head, as if to make it sink in that the assholes from the club killed my brother.

  Accident. No accident. They didn’t stop. They didn’t help.

  They killed him.

  And now because of who they are, of where they live and the last names they hold, they won’t be punished.

  * * *

  The teen driver “didn’t even realize he’d hit anyone” until he got home and saw his broken headlight. Investigators were able to place him in the area at the time of the accident, but there is no footage of the actual event happening to refute or support eyewitness claims.

  Williams, a senior at Canyon Academy Prep, is deeply troubled by the turn of events. He and his family have requested privacy at this time.

  * * *

  Privacy? Deeply troubled? A sound fills the small apartment—a deep, growling bellow—and I don’t even realize it comes from me.

  I reread the article.

  There were no fucking cars parked on the street. No place for Mason to dart out between.

  And then I read it again.

  He hit Mason. Rhett was with him. I saw him get out of the car. I saw him look at Mase. They knew what they did. They knew they had hit him. Then they reversed and fled. That’s what Mr. Bonman from unit 10B said happened. That’s what he said. The same as my story. Why would we lie?

  Total bullshit that Chadwick didn’t know he’d hit anything.

  On the third time through, I stop and research who the chief of police is. I have every intention of banging down the man’s door and demanding more for my little brother. And as the chief’s picture slowly loads on our shitty internet, as his name beneath it comes clear, it all makes fucking sense. Chief Edwin Williams.

  “Chief Edwin Williams, loving husband of Florence Daybell-Williams and father of teenage son Chadwick Williams, was born to protect and serve the town of Westmore, just like his father and his grandfather before him have.” I mutter his website bio, a fury of disbelief rioting through me.

  His fucking father is the chief of police.

  I jump to the solicitor’s site but have a feeling I already know what’s there. Why no charges have been pressed. Everyone in that goddamn country club protects their own.

  The current circuit solicitor is Clifford Daybell.

  How convenient.

  How utterly fucking convenient.

  No doubt Clifford Daybell is of some relation to Florence Daybell-Williams.

  They rigged this whole fucking thing. If I didn’t live here, if I didn’t work at the Westmore Country Club and see shit like this every day, I would think it’s not possible.

  But I do live here.

  I do work there.

  And I know the truth. Chadwick Williams murdered my brother—and Rhett Rothschild was in the car—and they’re getting off because they have friends in high places who fix shit for them.

  Just like they do at the club.

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  I sink back on the couch and close my eyes. I let the tears stream down. I let the grief I’ve been wading in swallow me whole.

  Mason was somebody. A good kid with a bright future. My little brother with a goofy laugh. A somebody who mattered.

  But apparently the only people who matter are those with money. Are those in high places. Are those who can fix “mistakes.”

  Nobody cares about the other people. About us. The people who are merely trying to get by. The ones trying to better themselves despite being dealt a shit hand in life. Those of us who are one bad decision away from being them.

  Even our lives don’t matter.

  There is motion in the doorway to my right and I open my eyes to see my mom standing there. Her once proud shoulders now sag. Her usually styled brown hair has her roots showing and streaks of silver in it. Her gentle smile is lost.

  “Anything?” she asks just above that whisper I’ve grown so used to in the last month.

  I stare at her and know the truth will only make her spiral further. “No. Nothing.” The lie rolls off my tongue, and I hate myself for it immediately.

  I’ll tell her the truth soon. I will. But not now.

  I need you too, Mom. I’ve lost him and now I’m losing you too.

  She stares at me with hollow eyes and nods—“’Kay”—before shuffling back into the bedroom and returning to her fetal position of rejecting reality.

  I stare at the ceiling and prepare for another night of trying to forget.

  I’ve got to get us out of here.

  Every day we leave the house we see where he died. Every day we hear the kids playing and we expect him to come in the front door.

  Every day we lose him all over again.

  And even worse, every time I go to my job that I so desperately need—that I can’t lose—I come face-to-face with Mason’s killers.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Rowan

  “Your gran was a fucking catty, meticulous genius who knew exactly what she was doing. I mean”—Sloane shuffles papers on the other end of the line—“she has all of this shit line-itemed out.”

  “I know. It’s pretty impressive,” I say as I glance once more at my closed office door—just to make sure it didn’t miraculously open itself back up.

  “Affairs between board members and officials high up the town’s chain of command. Loans made to shady people for gambling debts. Illegitimate children who no one knows about. Dirty deals with the wrong crowd.”

  “She was stockpiling.”

  “She was giving you blackmail material is what she was doing,” she murmurs.

  “It’s easy to say that, but that doesn’t mean anything will pan out.” I’ve looked at it all. I’ve studied it all. It’s not beneath me to use it, but I need the money from Gran to use it.

  That’s the crux of it all.

  “You’re learning the playing field. You’re seeing who might be a logical person to pressure if need be. Most of them are old. Some might be so old they don’t care about a scandal. Others might be so old they don’t want the scandal. Rowan? Are you there?”

  “Yeah. One sec…”

  The phone is to my ear, but my feet are moving toward the door so that I can better view the woman who just walked down the hall.

  She’s tall. Statuesque and svelte. Her pencil skirt is a deep gray and her sweater is tucked into it tight. Her nylons have seams in the back and her heels are higher than high.

  She carries herself with an elegance and air that has others in the office peeking their heads out of their offices to take notice.

  And she walks right into Holden’s office without stopping.

  Holden steps into the doorway and meets my eyes from my position down the hall for the briefest of seconds. I hate that I can’t read what they say, but before I can figure it out, he shuts the door and the blinds seconds thereafter.

  “Rowan?” Sloane says in my ear.

  “Yeah. Sure. I’m here.”

  “No, you’re not. What just happened?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  And it was nothing, wasn’t it? Just a business associate of Holden’s.

  One for whom he shut the blinds and the door.

  Much like he does when we’re in here alone at night and having sex in some form or another.

  My tongue feels thick in my mouth.

  “Are you okay?” Sloane continues.

  Am I? Of course I am.

  I have to be.

  Just a business associate.

  “Yes.” I shake my head to clear it and force myself back to my desk so that I can’t see down the hallway.

  But that doesn’t stop me from wondering.

  Is this a payback for the server room stunt?

  Is he really that petty?

  “I’m here,” I say. “Where were we?”

  “We were talking about making a short list of people who’d be the easiest to apply pressure to.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I ask.

  “As your friend and legal advisor,” she says in her primmest of tones, “I can make anything look and sound pretty. Lines can be blurred. Threats can be subtle.”

  “So yes and no?” I laugh.

  “How bad do you want it?” she asks.

  Fucking bad.

  “Now we just need to figure out how I can come up with the money to be able to do this. And no”—I cut her off before she says what she’s going to say—“a mail-ordered groom is not the answer.”

  Her laugh rings through the line and makes me smile.

  Our conversation sticks with me as I purposely keep myself more than busy all day. It’s easier than wondering what the hour-long, closed-door meeting with the supermodel was about.

  Audrey usually sits in on all his meetings. Takes notes for him. Types up a list of actionable items afterward.

  She wasn’t in that meeting.

  The thought repeats as she gives me a cursory smile as she passes me on my way into the break room.

  I need caffeine.

  And a distraction.

  And that distraction isn’t in the form of looking up to find Holden standing in the break room doorway, blocking my exit.

  “Hi,” he says.

  I offer a smile. A nod.

  And try not to be irritated.

  “You’re not going to talk?” he asks.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  “What was what about?” He narrows his eyes. “Ahh,” he says when he realizes what I’m talking about. The chuckle that follows soon after grates against my nerves.

  We hold each other’s gazes.

  “I have a lot of people come in and out of my office, Rowan. Some conversations are private. Some are not. Nowhere in whatever this is do I have to justify every single person I meet with … and you don’t want to be the woman who asks me to. I assure you on that.”

  He holds my eyes for a second longer before turning on his heel and walking out.

  Just when I think Holden Knight’s walls are broken down, they go right back up.

  Almost as if he, himself, isn’t sure where they need to be positioned.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Holden

  “We signed the papers. The ink is dried. Why hasn’t the full amount been fucking transferred?”

  “The ink is still drying last I checked, but please, by all means, come on in,” I say, glancing up to Rhett and his impatient fucking stare as he stands in my doorway with anxiety radiating off him.

  Clank. Click. Clank.

  This is for you, Mase. All for you.

  He puts the lighter in his pocket, stance wide, shoulders squared like he’s ready for a brawl. “I will. I don’t need to ask permission to come into my own goddamn office.”

  Testy. Testy.

  I make a show of glancing around the space. I’ve changed it up a bit since I moved in. The golf memorabilia is gone. So are the plaques praising Rhett as an esteemed member of the Westmore Country Club world. Less is more for me. And I don’t have to stare at my accomplishments to know my worth as a man. Apparently, he does.

  I offer a pitying smile. “Last I checked the office was mine, but I’ll let your mistake slide since it seems you’re upset.” I fold my hands methodically on the desk blotter in front of me. “Now, how is it that I can help you?”