Vengeful (Hollow Beach #1)

Prologue

BELLAMY

AGE SIXTEEN

The cop cars sit half on the curb, half in the street, lights on but sirens off.

That’s the first thing I notice. Not the number of them—three, maybe four—but the fact that they’re quiet. Just white doors and black lettering, idling as if they belong here.

Which they kind of do.

Our block gets visits like this. Noise complaints. Domestics. Someone selling something they shouldn’t out of a second-story window. It’s not unusual enough to make me slow down.

I adjust my backpack strap and keep walking.

The apartment building squats at the end of the block, concrete and tired, its front steps chipped and uneven. Someone’s left the front door propped open with a milk crate. A paramedic van sits crooked out front, hazard lights blinking a lazy orange.

Still, I think nothing of it.

My stomach growls as I trudge up the stairs. I picture the half-empty box of Lucky Charms on top of the fridge, the milk carton I'd shaken yesterday—three swallows left, maybe. Mom's voice this morning: “I'll hit the grocery after my shift, Bellamy.” The same promise as Tuesday.

“Miss Hale?”

I freeze mid-step. A uniform blocks our doorway—navy blue, a silver badge catching hallway light. Our apartment door gapes open, wider than we ever leave it. Yellow light spills out, casting strange shadows across the hall carpet.

The officer's hand rises between us, palm out, fingers slightly spread. “I'm sorry. You can't go in there right now.”

I blink at him. “This is my apartment.”

The cop's eyes flick over his shoulder, then back to mine. His Adam's apple bobs once. The corners of his mouth twitch downward before he forces them level again.

“Let's step over here for a second,” he says, voice dropping half an octave.

His fingers brush my elbow, steering me toward the stairwell.

I follow, my sneakers dragging against the carpet as if they've suddenly gained twenty pounds each.

My ears ring. Cars honk three blocks away but sound underwater.

A pigeon flaps past, wings beating in slow motion.

My eyes catch on a crack in the sidewalk—jagged like lightning—then fix on a single red Converse sneaker tipped against the dumpster, its laces trailing like dead worms. Something sweet-sour hangs in the air. Cough syrup and bleach.

The stretcher wheels squeak against the doorframe.

Two paramedics grip the sides, their movements smooth as dancers.

A sheet drapes over lumps and valleys. Not quite far enough.

One arm dangles off the edge, swaying with each bump.

Pale. Blue-veined. Fingers half-curled like they're still reaching for something just beyond grasp.

The floor tilts beneath my feet. My vision narrows to the pale fingers dangling from the stretcher—fingers with chipped purple nail polish that don't belong to my mother. Can't belong to her.

“Miss?” The cop's voice comes from somewhere far away. “Are you—should I get you a chair?”

The stretcher wheels catch on the metal threshold strip with a sound like a fork against teeth. The paramedics adjust their grip and lift slightly. Those fingers sway with the movement.

“Who is that?” The question leaves my mouth like someone else is asking it. Someone calm. Someone standing on solid ground.

My ribs seem to crack open, something cold rushing in where my lungs should be. If I move—even breathe too deeply—I might shatter completely, might never find all the pieces again.

The cop's hand lands on my shoulder, heavy as an anchor.

I stare at his hand on my shoulder. Five thick fingers, a silver wedding band, clean fingernails. The weight of it anchors me to the sidewalk when everything else feels like it might float away.

I roll my shoulder until he lets go.

His hand retreats to his belt. “I'm sorry,” he says again, voice softer than before. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

My chin dips once. My throat feels packed with cotton.

“Where is your father?” The question hangs between us. “And does your mother have any relatives we can contact?”

My eyes dart past his shoulder, searching the cracked sidewalk, the street with its double-parked cars, the propped-open building entrance. Then I remember my siblings are at sleepovers tonight.

I shake my head slowly. “My dad's not—” The rest sticks in my throat. I swallow. “And no relatives. Not anymore.”

The cop's shoulders drop a half-inch. His eyes flick to his shoes—scuffed at the toes—then back to my face. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

“Miss Hale,” he says, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “I'm very sorry, but your mother passed away.”

My fingertips go cold first. Then my palms. The chill spreads up my arms while my face feels hot, too hot, like I'm standing too close to an open oven. I blink three times, waiting for tears that don't come. My tongue feels thick, stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“How?” The single syllable scrapes my throat raw.

The cop's face crumples like wet paper. “It appears to have been an overdose.”

I nod.

“And I'm sorry,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper, “but if we can't locate a legal guardian, you and your siblings will be placed into foster care.”

Foster care.

My fingers go numb. The apartment door hangs open, spilling yellow light across the hallway floor. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. I want to scream at the stretcher, at those purple-painted fingernails.

How dare she make promises about groceries she'll never buy? How dare she leave us with nothing but an open door and strangers deciding where we'll sleep tonight?

My backpack strap digs into my shoulder, textbooks suddenly heavy as concrete. Through the doorway, I glimpse the kitchen calendar with its circled dates and scrawled reminders in my handwriting.

My hand finds the apartment key in my pocket, its familiar ridges pressing into my palm like a promise I can no longer keep.

Not for the first time, I find myself hating my mother.