Chapter 1
Kieran
brOTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER
Is everything all right?
Anderson is pissed you took off mid practice
Ashford?
You’re starting to freak me out dude. call me back
The scream that rips through my chest burns like fire.
My cheeks puff in and out as I force my legs to move. My brain keeps screaming faster, faster, faster.
Suddenly, everything around me blurs, and I have to blink quickly to clear my eyes, the tears running down my cheeks never-ending. No matter how hard I try to pump my legs and lift my knees, I’m not fast enough.
The black car I’ve sat in a million times—with the paint chipping away, the fabric seats torn and scratched, the clunking sound the engine makes—kicks up dust as it speeds off…without me.
“Mom!”
I don’t recognize the voice that comes from me. It doesn’t sound like me at all.
I sound broken.
My voice is beginning to crack, fading away along with my mom’s car as it rounds the bend.
I don’t see the pothole. Another panicked cry rips from me when my shoes clip it, my eyes widening as my mom’s car takes the turn around the trees, disappearing at the same time my body smacks against the ground.
A wail of pain rushes from me as my knees, cheek, and hands scrape along the gravel. The heat of the cuts joins the fire burning in my chest and throat.
As I try to stand, the pain wrenches a yelp out of me, this one different. I sound like one of the animals on the nature channel when a predator tears into it.
Lifting my head, my lip quivers, my gaze blurred through the pooling tears.
“Mom, please! I’ll be good I p-promise!”
My heart pangs forcefully, skipping beats before it thud, thud, thuds. Another wave of panic rises for an entirely different reason.
My grandpa died of a broken heart. Am I dying of a broken heart?
Scrambling up, I ignore the pain flaring in my body, because it’s nothing like the hurt in my heart. Maybe I can catch up to her…
I try to run again, but my legs won’t let me.
Whimpering, I fall to my knees as I sob, “Mom, please.”
Is this because I ate the last Pop-Tart? I couldn’t stop myself. I was so hungry my stomach was hurting. I hadn’t eaten in days.
She didn’t look mad when she told me to check the side of the road for the puppy but maybe she got mad that I couldn’t find it for her? I looked really hard; I searched and searched but I couldn’t see it.
“Mom?” I croak out.
My stomach churns with that squishy feeling, spit filling my mouth.
Oh no.
I hate vomiting. It scares me. It comes out of my nose and I can’t breathe.
No one can help me feel better, not that my mom did anyway, but sometimes when I was sick and she wasn’t home I’d lie in her bed and cuddle her pillow.
Her pillow isn’t here for me to cuddle.
I have nothing.
My eyes widen as my stomach rolls and before I can move to the side of the road I’m vomiting, gagging and choking on it as tears run down my cheeks.
Not a lot comes out because all I’ve had was the strawberry Pop-Tart.
“P-please,” I hiccup when the vomiting stops, not knowing who I’m begging.
I’m alone. Panic like never before—stronger than the times she left me in the apartment for days without food and water, stronger than the fear of never seeing her—fills my entire body.
Stronger than the bad man that visits sometimes.
My hands start to tingle, my chest rising and falling so fast I’m scared I’m going to fall asleep and never wake up. Black spots like the night sky take over my eyes.
Did she…leave me here? For good?
“Mom?” I whisper between sobs.
I’m up the mountain. We were in the car for hours before she saw the puppy. I’m not allowed to be alone outside of home. Mommy says bad things happen to little kids like me when we’re alone.
Are bad things going to happen to me?
“Mr. Ashford.”
Her voice is like a whip, striking my brain to the here and now. Grunting in response, I try to give myself a second to shake off the feeling that memory always leaves me with.
Although sitting in this room…I’ll never be able to feel safe.
Trying to rid my throat of the lump of emotion, I swallow, my nostrils flaring as it hovers, demanding to be let out in a scream.
I fucking hate this office and I fucking hate that memory.
A deep sigh escapes her. “Mr. Ashford.”
Despite her clear annoyance, I take my time, forcing myself to take a steadying breath as I flick my gaze to the aging woman behind the wooden desk, to the woman that I would love nothing more than to ruin.
Mrs. Sommerfield.
More like the Antichrist.
Demon.
Devil.
Satan.
Though I don’t think the devil even compares to this monster.
Mrs. Sommerfield is the “matron”—as she calls herself—to this hellhole of a foster home. For over thirty-five years, she’s never once done the right thing by the children who came through her front doors.
I would know.
I thought I would never see her face again, promised myself, in fact, that I would never allow her close to me again. Not after everything that happened in this place.
Fate, it seems, fucking hates me.
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I suppress the urge to call her every dirty name in the book. I note the irritation dancing along her features that she can’t keep at bay—the anger lurking in the corners of her eyes, her dipped brows, her tightening lips.
Yeah, she remembers me all right.
“Yes?” I all but spit.
Okay, so maybe she’s doing a better job at controlling her anger.
Hers, however, isn’t justified. She’s a horrid old woman who hates children and chose the wrong career path. I, on the other hand, am trying to quench my rage from how she never protected me.
“Did you hear me?”
Taking a shuddering breath, only to quickly exhale the musty stale air, I ask, “Can you repeat yourself.” My hands fist in my lap as I force myself to say, “Please.”
Her brow arches. “I see you finally found your manners.”
I give her a tight-lipped smile. “Only took…what was it? Over seventy whippings?”
Her beady brown eyes blaze. “We do not participate in such barbaric disciplinary actions in this foster home.”
“My memory begs to differ.”
She rolls her eyes. “Still got that mouth on you, boy—”
“Man, and you better remember that I’m not some terrified little boy anymore, Matron, so get on with whatever you summoned me for so I can be on my way before I decide to call the authorities.”
I should have done it years ago, should have done it the second I aged out of this home.
But despite my declaration, fear won out. That, and shame.
Along with the knowledge that the foster home would get shut down and the children would be shipped off to another one. I’ve heard horror stories worse than mine, and I wouldn’t be able to handle it if my actions sentenced innocent children to a far worse fate.
Doesn’t mean I did nothing though.
Although I think the children would have preferred being saved from her wrath rather than anonymous donations that kept food in their bellies and clothes on their back.
She picks up the paperwork on her desk, her red-framed glasses sitting on the perch of her nose as she drawls, “A child was brought to us two weeks ago, one named Emmy Callaghan.” She lowers the paper in her hands, peering at me over her glasses. “Does the name ring a bell?”
Raking through my memories, I throw the name around, coming up blank. “No, should it?”
“Well, considering she’s your daughter, I hoped it would have.”
A bomb detonating would be far less shocking than how that sentence rattles through my body.
Time seems to slow, the room growing cold and silent, the only sound the blood rushing through my ears. I might have stopped breathing.
“M-my daughter?” I stutter. “I don’t have children.”
“That you’re aware of.”
My heart skips a beat.
No.
I’m careful, beyond fucking careful.
“This must be a mistake. I would know—”
She slides a piece of paper across the desk, silencing me.
“No mistake. We still have your DNA on file from when you were living with us, and as you know, we run the DNA of the children who come to us in the hopes a living relative would be available to contact. Imagine my surprise when it rang alarm bells, pointing to you as her father.”
It isn’t until I lean forward to pick up the document that I realize how badly my hands are shaking. My eyes flick back and forth, and I only get through the first paragraph before the words start to blur, the room spinning. The sheet falls from my hand.
By the gleam in the matron’s eye, she’s savoring this moment. Soaking up every second of my shocked stupor.
If I were in my right mind, I’d ask for a moment alone to process the revelation but I’m not because…Christ. A daughter—I have a child.
How could I not know? Why didn’t her mom tell me?
And more importantly, why the fuck is she here?
That thought hits me like a ton of bricks.
My head snaps up, my teeth baring as I lunge forward, placing my hands on the desk and crowding the matron’s personal space. “I swear to fucking god, if you touched so much as a single hair on that child’s head, I will fucking destroy you.”
She has the wits to pale as she leans back. “As I said before—”
“Cut the bullshit,” I spit. “Did you touch her?”
The matron shakes her head. “No.”
I swallow the urge to reach out and throttle the woman that beat me to a bloody pulp so often that I lost count, reminding myself I’d be no better than her, and physically force myself to take my seat once more.
I slowly breathe in through my nose. “You said she’s been here for two weeks. Why wasn’t I contacted sooner?”
“The DNA results just came in yesterday.”
I have a million and one questions swarming my mind, all of them fighting for the chance to roll off my tongue first. One wins out.
“How did she end up here?”
The she-devil rubs the nape of her neck, and that single movement has me shielding my heart and mind, preparing myself for the worst. “What happened to her mother?” I demand.
She clears her throat. “Natasha Callaghan was found in her bed after an overdose.”
My brows skyrocket in surprise.
An overdose.