Devil’s Iris (Nightshades #4)

Chapter 1

LENI

“You would not believe who I just saw walking into a vehicle with some of the Mudrat’s crew looking rebellious as hell.”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I yank my phone away from my ear to glare at the caller ID, irritation flaring hot in my chest. I’m running late for work, and my nosy-ass neighbor wants to play twenty questions?

We’re not even friendly with each other—hell, we barely tolerate each other’s existence.

She barrels on anyway. “I might have trailed the car and saw them going towards the hole, towards their trap house.”

“Does this have anything to do with me, Bree?” I pin my phone between my shoulder and ear while stuffing my purse with essentials—cash, keys, lip balm, and AirPods. The bare minimum to survive another day in this never-ending shitshow called life.

“Trust me, it has everything to do with you, Leni. One of them is a boy who just turned eighteen three weeks ago and is related to you.”

My heart jerks in my chest. No. He wouldn’t. Not after our conversation. Not after I specifically—

“It’s Ethan.” I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice because I didn’t play along with her little guessing game.

“That can’t be.” I cornered him just days ago, made him promise to stop hanging around with Henry, the new friend dragging him into all this shit.

“You calling me a liar? I know what the fuck I saw, thank you very much and—”

“How long ago?” I cut her off, already walking towards my bedroom door where my sneakers wait neatly by the wall.

“I don’t know. I was out getting groceries when I saw him, so maybe thirty to forty minutes ago?”

And you’re just calling me now? I swallow the bitter retort, forcing myself to be grateful she’s calling at all.

Though knowing Bree, she’s probably getting some twisted satisfaction out of this drama.

The woman has had a stick lodged so far up her ass ever since she moved in next door last year and seems to take personal offense to my family’s mere presence.

I still don’t know what crawled up there and died.

I jam my feet into my sneakers. “Alright, thanks for the heads-up.”

I start to pull the phone from my ear when she adds, “You should have a serious conversation with that boy, Leni. I’d hate to see him turn out like—” She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to. We both know she’s talking about Mom.

My spine goes rigid, and I grit my teeth, lips curling into a scowl. “Thank you,” I repeat, colder this time, then hang up before she can say another word.

Judgmental bitch. She’s about the same age as Mom and isn’t doing much better herself. No decent job, leeching off her children, spending her days playing garden gnome and neighborhood spy. She has no right to judge anyone.

And Ethan—God, what the hell is that little asshole thinking? He just put me in the position of having to listen to that shit.

Blood boiling, I lock my bedroom door behind me, dropping the key in my purse. Hard lesson learned: Leave your door unlocked around Mom, and your stuff magically disappears.

I march down the barren hallway into our excuse for a living room.

There’s just one couch now, and the wall where the TV used to hang has the freshest coat of paint in the entire place.

A few weeks ago, I came home and it was simply gone.

Poof. Just like all the other furniture that disappeared, piece by piece, as I grew up.

The woman herself is passed out on the couch. I roll my eyes, resisting the urge to kick it on my way past her. Not that it would be enough to wake her. Judging by the syringes and powder-streaked coffee table, she’s out of this world. At least for now.

As I step outside, the cool night breeze skates over my ankles, and it hits me—I forgot to put on socks.

Perfect. Just another small misery to add to the pile.

I let out a long, frustrated sigh and trudge to where my old scooter waits in the apartment complex parking lot, looking as tired as I feel.

The thing is held together with duct tape and prayers, but it’s all I’ve got.

I straddle the seat and I’m pulling my helmet on when it dawns on me with all the grace of a punch to the ribs.

I need to call Fred. Shit. The thought makes me want to throw up, but I can’t just show up late without calling or he might fire me on the spot.

I already have two strikes. One more, and I’m toast.

The line barely rings once before he picks up. “You better be calling to tell me you’re about to pull into the diner.” His voice is so sharp it could slice through bone. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, steeling myself for the fallout.

“I am about to pull in. In like… another hour.” I wince as the words leave my mouth. An hour. Jesus, that sounds even worse out loud.

“Charlene.”

“I’m so sorry! Ethan got into trouble and I have to go pick him up. I just need an extra hour, please. I’ll make up for it—I’ll stay two hours after my shift, whatever you need.”

Fred’s sigh is heavy. “This is the third time this week, Leni, and it’s only Wednesday. I understand your situation, but I need someone stable working with me. I can’t be constantly wondering if my employee is going to show up late again… if she even shows up at all.”

I remain silent, head bowed in shame.

“If you’re later than an hour, consider your job here gone.”

“I won’t be later than an hour,” I vow, putting every ounce of determination I have into those words.

His response is the dial tone.

I slam my hand down on my scooter’s handlebar. “Fucking Ethan,” I snarl to the empty parking lot. “I’m going to kill him.”

I can’t afford to lose this job. It took me months of rejection and humiliation to even get this one. Turns out when your only academic credential is a high school diploma, the world doesn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for you.

I turn the key in the scooter’s ignition and the engine sputters pathetically. Oh, for the love of—is this heap of scrap metal seriously going to choose today to finally give up on me?

“Come on, baby,” I murmur, twisting harder, practically grinding the key. “Don’t you dare do this to me now.”

The engine coughs, wheezes, then miraculously catches. Relief floods my chest so hard and sudden I could cry.

I let out a shaky breath and peel out of the parking lot as fast as my scooter will carry me, hyper-aware of my ticking deadline.

Driving through Blake Avenue, I cut through side streets without thinking, laser-focused on making it to the hole within fifteen minutes instead of the usual twenty.

My shoulders draw tight, hiking up towards my ears as the scenery starts changing, getting progressively worse the farther I venture from civilization.

By the time I’m pulling onto Amber Street, I’m in a different world entirely.

The stench in the neighborhood hits me first—a nauseating cocktail of bad sewage, cigarette smoke, human misery, and rotting trash cluttering every yard.

It’s the kind of smell that clings to your clothes, your hair, your very soul…

I don’t know how such a toxic mixture is even possible, but this place has perfected the art of despair.

I wrinkle my nose as I skirt around a small puddle of what I hope is dirty water in the road, avoiding looking too closely at the decaying houses scattered around, sparse and broken, with weeds growing wild and spilling onto the pavement.

Ugh. I’ve only been here one other time—the first was because of Mom, naturally—and as I pull up in front of the one-story house that was once blue but is now a sad, weathered white, a familiar wave of resentment flows through me.

Why are they both doing this to me?

No time for self-pity, though. Time is literally ticking away.

I kill the engine with a whispered prayer that it will start again when I need to escape this place, hang my helmet on the handlebar, then quickly check the time on my phone.

The ride was seventeen minutes. That leaves me exactly forty-three minutes to make it back to Brownsville.

I can do this.

I square my shoulders as I walk up to the front door, feeling the knife in my pants’ hidden pocket dig into my hip with each step, a reminder that I’m not completely defenseless in this place where violence is as common as breathing.

A rusted doorbell sits crooked by the doorframe—no chance that thing still works. So I ball my hand into a fist and knock briskly, running through my speech in my head.

Hi, there. I’m looking for my little brother, Ethan. Bushy brows, shaggy brown hair, lanky build, and stupid enough to come here.

The door swings open, and relief floods me at the sight of the kid on the other side. “Henry.” I almost grab his arm, but I manage to control myself. “I’m here for Ethan.”

Henry eyes me like he’s very much aware of the fact that I don’t approve of his friendship with my brother, then takes a step back from the door, silently inviting me in.

I bite my lip, hesitating. I knew I might have to go in, of course. But knowing and doing are two very different things. I take comfort in the weight of my knife as I step across the threshold, the door closing behind me with the finality of a coffin lid.

“Follow me, Ethan is—”

The rest of Henry’s words are swallowed by someone pounding on the door. We both whip our heads towards the sound, and my neck prickles with danger signals. Probably because I’m standing in a well-known trap house like an idiot.

“That better be a paying customer,” the eighteen-year-old mutters as he unlocks the door.

“Aren’t you going to check through the peephole first?” I ask, appalled at his total lack of self-preservation instincts. He throws me a bored look that screams ‘you’re being dramatic’, then swings the door wide open.

A split second later, he’s promptly shoved back as the entryway explodes with shouting men in tactical vests, guns raised.

“Police! Hands up! Drop your weapons!”

My stomach plummets straight to hell. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

One of the cops tackles Henry to the ground, wrenching his arms behind his back and snapping cuffs on his wrists with way more force than necessary. Another one spots me, but my hands are already in the air as she approaches, cuffs dangling from her fingers.

“Hello, detective.” I try a friendly smile. “I’m so relieved to see you. I’m here for my brother and—”

“Save it.” She spins me around and grabs my hands with zero gentleness. Cool metal kisses my wrists, and I shudder at the contact.

I’m getting arrested too? How long will this take? Less than an hour? No, I only have forty–three minutes left. Or is it thirty by now? God, I don’t even know how long it took to walk up to the front door and for Henry to open it.

I cannot be arrested. Panic claws up my throat, and I start struggling, trying to pull away from her iron grip. “I’m not a criminal! I’m only here to pick up my brother, I swear—”

“Your brother is one of the drug dealers? Which one?”

My lips part, but no words come out. No matter what I say, she’s not going to believe me, is she? She’s just going to twist my words until I’m buried so deep I’ll never see daylight again.

Cops are not to be trusted.

I’m pushed towards the front door, and tears of frustration prick my eyes as dread coils, cold and heavy, in my chest.

I’m going to lose my job.