Property of Whiz (Kings of Anarchy MC: Washington #3)

Prologue

ZOEY

Nine years old…

“Dead Zone Zoey!”

Ignoring the sing-songed nickname, I hunch my shoulders in an effort to protect the cat in my arms and pick up my pace.

Brittney and Rachel follow close behind me, their taunting and teasing never letting up.

When I reach my trailer, I scurry up the steps and pray that Mom doesn’t yell at me for being late.

“That’s it, freak… run away and hide,” Rachel calls from the end of the driveway where the two of them stop.

The screen door squeaks on its hinges, and I jump when it bangs shut against the doorframe.

“Zoey, is that you?” Mom shouts from down the hall. “You’re late!”

I pull my flimsy jacket around the cat’s body with only seconds to spare before my mom appears in the living room. She stops in her tracks and stares at the lump under my coat for a minute, and then she lifts her eyes to mine.

“Today is not the day, Zoey,” she scolds. “Whatever dead thing you’ve brought home can go right back outside. We’re late, and you know how much Grandma hates it when we’re late.”

I scrunch my forehead and try to make sense of her words. “But Grandma’s dead. She won’t care.”

Mom bursts into tears, and I can’t help but wonder why. I know she’s sad about Grandma, and so am I, but Grandma was sick and wanted to die. She told me so herself.

Before I can make sense of her crying, Mom closes the distance between us and yanks my jacket open. The dead cat falls to the floor, and she jumps back with a scream.

“Fuck, Zoey, take that thing outside,” she demands. “Now!”

I pick up the cat and whirl around to rush out the door.

Rachel and Brittney are walking away, but I pay them no mind as I walk around the trailer to the small shed.

I want to bury the animal, but that’ll have to wait.

For now, I deposit the furball just inside the door and race back inside to change for the funeral.

An hour later, Mom and I are standing near Grandma’s casket as people wait in line to tell us how sorry they are for our loss. Mom hasn’t stopped crying, and the small trash can in the corner is almost full of wet Kleenex.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Todd, one of Mom’s boyfriends, says before kissing her cheek. Then he crouches to get on my level. “You, too, Zoey.” I stare at him until he practically squirms with discomfort and rises to his full height. “See you tonight, Lori?”

Mom smiles, and it’s as if she’d never been crying. “Of course. Come by around ten?”

Todd winks. “See ya then.”

I might only be nine years old, but I’ve seen enough of these types of interactions between my mom and men to know that I’ll be forced to stay in my room and wear my headphones to block out the noise they’ll make.

Time passes in a blur, and before I know it, Mom and I are being ushered to the front row of chairs where we sit and listen to the pastor talk about life and death and Grandma.

The entire time, I stare at the casket and silently beg God to make her wake up and take me away from Mom and our stupid life.

She was the only person who understood me, who didn’t make me feel like there’s something wrong with me.

My surroundings fade into the background as Grandma’s voice fills my head.

“Zoey, honey, it’s going to be okay. You’re unique, and that’s not a bad thing. The fact that people don’t understand you is their problem, not yours. Don’t let them make it yours. I love you, Zozo, and just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not always with you.”

For the first time since Mom told me that Grandma died, I don’t feel like I’m alone.

I glance around the room and take in the faces of those who came to the funeral.

There’s a mixture of sadness, smiles, and what I can only describe as peace.

It’s as if they’ve all looked at the woman in the casket and found something that eases their pain.

I want that. I crave that.

In this moment, warmth wraps around me like a blanket that just came out of the dryer. Death has never scared me, or grossed me out like it does everyone else my age. I realize that Grandma’s right. I’m not weird… I’m unique.

Maybe I can use my uniqueness to make the world a little better for others when they might not feel like it’s possible.

“Rest in peace.”

The pastor’s words pull me from my thoughts, and as everyone else files out of the building to wait for the procession to the gravesite, I stand and move toward the casket. Eventually, the room is silent but for the hum of Grandma’s words in my brain.

“The fact that people don’t understand you is their problem, not yours. Don’t let them make it yours. I love you, Zozo.”

“I won’t,” I whisper. “I promise. I love you, too.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?”

I whirl around at my mother’s hushed shriek, but before I can shrink in on myself, I think about Grandma’s words. Squaring my shoulders, I smile.

“Grandma,” I reply.

“Jesus, now you’re talking to dead people. Why are you like this?” Mom demands as she stomps toward me to grab my arm and lead me outside. “This is why you don’t have any friends, you know that, right?”

I think of the cat I hid in the shed, the small dog I buried last week, and all the other animals that I’ve talked to as I laid them in their final resting places throughout the trailer park. And I think of Grandma.

“I have friends,” I insist. “I have lots of ‘em.”

“Dead Zone Zoey,” Mom mutters under her breath. “My daughter is Dead Zone Zoey.”

I don’t know if I was supposed to hear that, but I did, and despite hearing Grandma’s words in my head to not let stuff like that bother me, it hurts… a lot.

The ride to the gravesite is quiet. Mom cries, and I stare out the window. The graveside service is short, and there are less people there than at the funeral home. When it’s over, Mom stands off to the side with Todd, leaving me to fend for myself.

I walk around the cemetery, weaving in and out of tombstones and reading the names of the people buried beneath the ground.

Some have flowers or wreaths thoughtfully placed, while others are covered in moss and dirt, the passing of time having taken its toll.

But the one thing they all have in common is the way they make me feel… like I belong.

The dead may be gone and forgotten by many, but…

These are my people.