Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
RAVEN, TWO MONTHS LATER
“ M om! Hurry! I’m going to be late!” Noah stands at the front door with his backpack slung across his back and one hand on the door handle.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Hopping on the stairs on one foot, I slide my shoe onto my other foot.
I got up early to get ready, but everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.
My coffee spilled on my nice shirt, I burned my wrist on my hair straightener, and I messed up my eyeliner when my “just in case I didn’t wake up on time” alarm went off.
I jumped at the sudden noise, and when I looked back in the mirror, there was a black streak going from the corner of my eye all the way to my hairline.
With the way I’m scrambling to get my shit together, it would seem like this is my first time hunting for a job.
Oh, right! Because it is!
Sarcasm isn’t helping my nerves, but coping is coping. I’m calling it a win.
We got lucky with this house, especially since I bought it without seeing it first. But when we arrived a few weeks ago, we loved it right away.
It’s an open concept, modest home, and it’s absolutely perfect for us.
The living room is in the front of the house with a large window on the first floor.
The newly remodeled kitchen and half bathroom are also on the first floor, along with the laundry room of every mother’s dreams. Upstairs is Noah’s room, a rec room, and my bedroom.
What solidified my love of this home was the master bathroom and walk-in closet.
That jetted tub has hosted many bubble bath parties for me.
“Mom!”
“I’m right here!” I call out.
I juggle my folder of resumes, purse, coffee, and keys as Noah opens the door for me. This house may be nice, but damn that front door. It makes the most ungodly loud creak when we open and close it. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, but worse.
Rushing out into the dry heat, sweat instantly gathers in every crevice of my body. I swear, Texas only has two seasons. Summer and warm winter. Right now, at the end of August, it’s like the devil himself turned up the thermostat in Mystic River.
With this heat, I should’ve purchased a house with a pool.
I brush Noah’s hair out of his eyes. “Thanks, little king.”
“Mom,” he grumbles. “I’m not a little king.”
“Right.” I nod my head once, feeling sufficiently chastised by my six-year-old.
Six going on sixteen. Just what every mother dreams of.
Realizing his backpack is unzipped, I move to close it. He jumps back before I can even touch the zipper, but he’s not fast enough for me not to have seen that his backpack is filled to the top with snacks. He turns from me, pink tinging the pale color of his cheeks.
“Noah, what’s all that doing in your backpack?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you planning on feeding an army with that feast?” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood.
“It’s nothing, Mom. Just let it go.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond and stomps off to the car.
Blowing out a breath, I gather my strength and follow behind him.
My white Ford Escape beeps when I press the unlock button, and Noah runs off to get into the back seat.
I admire the brand-new car I was able to afford when Rio Flores let me know that he and his friends were distributing Anthony’s and Pierce’s money amongst all of us rescued women.
The lump sum was enough to buy the car, drive to Texas, purchase our new home, and still have some left over so I could be at home for a bit and help Noah transition into public school.
“Mom! I can’t be late,” Noah complains as I slide in, dumping my armful of essentials on the passenger seat and setting my travel mug in the cup holder.
My eyes wander to the house next door and the empty driveway.
We’ve been here for about a month, and I still have no idea who our neighbors are.
I don’t think they have any kids for Noah to play with, or else I would’ve done the brave thing by now and introduced myself.
The only glimpse I’ve seen of them is a truck and a couple of motorcycles driving to and from the house at all hours of the night.
And the streetlights here are basically nonexistent, so I can’t even tell what color the truck is.
Once or twice, I’ve heard giggling women coming and going, so I’m guessing it’s a couple of single men.
Securing my seat belt, I adjust my mirrors. “Buckled?”
“Yes, Mom,” Noah sighs as he points to the strap across his chest.
Should I still have him in a car seat? Maybe. One website says yes, while another says no. And the information in parenting books is just as conflicting as it is condemning.
Don’t get mad at your kids. You’ll give them extreme depression and anxiety.
Don’t feed your kids any sugar. Sugar is addictive and can lead to other addictions.
Don’t let your kids watch TV for more than thirty minutes each day. Screentime lowers their intelligence.
Holy hell. I knew that going from being a captive to a full-time mom would be hard, but I was not prepared for this.
At least in New York, I had people I could lean on. We had to in order to survive. But here, it’s just me. I only have me.
The only real road map I have is of what not to do.
Walter and Georgia Kelly. Now, they knew how to fuck up a child.
My parents were experts. I was supposed to be their prima ballerina.
What a disappointment I turned out to be.
Thankfully, they can’t do any more damage since they’re six feet under.
I’m determined to be nothing like them. I won’t even claim their last name as my own.
Rio Flores helped me legally change it to Henry.
Besides my healthy upbringing, there’s social media, which shows these picturesque moms who read all the parenting books, make the perfect nursery, prepare organic homemade meals, and keep the house perfectly clean. But that life isn’t in the cards for me or Noah.
I was kidnapped and knocked up within a couple of months of being forced to turn tricks for Anthony and Pierce.
Noah lived with evil men all these years.
Men who didn’t care if the woman begged them to stop.
Thankfully, Noah knows it was wrong. He hated those men, every single one.
In our long road trip to Texas, he talked to me the whole way about living in the prep house.
I listened to every horrid detail and made sure he understood our lives would never be like that again.
We talked about our expectations and dreams for our new life.
“Remember, I’ll pick you up after school in the library parking lot,” I remind Noah.
It’s easier to pick him up there because it’s right next to Mystic River Elementary, and it’s easier to get out of that parking lot than it is to get out of the school parking lot.
Almost every parent picks up their kid from school.
“Yeah, yeah, Mom. I know.”
Maybe I really am doing this whole parenting thing wrong.
We pull into the school parking lot five minutes before the bell is supposed to ring. Our car is sandwiched between slick luxury brand cars.
Mystic River may be small by New York City standards, but the people here are almost richer than God himself.
It’s one of those towns where everyone knows everyone, and all the businesses have the town name in the title.
“Mystic River Grill, Mystic Beans, Mystic River Market, Mystic River Hardware, Mystic Scoops.” It’s all very original.
There’s even the Mystic River Psychiatric Hospital, where I will definitely not be applying. No way in hell. I have other plans for that place.
Pulling up to the drop-off point, Noah has his seatbelt off and the door open before I can even put the car in park.
“Noah!” I shout in surprise. It makes my heart stop every time.
“Sorry,” he says remorsefully. Instead of bolting away, he pops his head into the front seat and kisses my cheek. “Good luck today, Mom. Love you!” Then he’s out of the car and running into the school before I can return the sentiment.
Okay. Maybe I am doing something right with this parenting thing.
My heart jumps into my throat as short inky black hair flashes in my rearview mirror. I squint my eyes, focusing on the mirror, and a figure sits up in the back seat. His face is covered in shadow, and he lifts his hand, waving me to come to him.
My hands suddenly feel slick, and when I look down, they’re covered in red. My heart lodges itself in my throat.
It isn’t real. It isn’t real.
With a deep breath, I face forward and lean back into the headrest. Squeezing the steering wheel, I close my eyes and give myself a sad excuse for a pep talk.
“Keep it together, Raven. You can’t go down that road.
He’s not here anymore, and you’re no longer in that house.
Don’t let your mind play tricks on you.”
When I open my eyes again, the blood is gone from my hands, and no one is in the back seat.
Fuck. That hasn’t happened since I was a teenager.
It’s this town. It’s bringing all my monsters back to life.
Resume in hand and my game face on, I walk into Mystic Beans with the confidence of a middle-aged privileged man. The rich aroma of coffee and baked goods soothes my nerves as I approach the counter.
Mystic Beans is a cute little shop. It’s simple, with five tables, wood and matte black metal accents, indoor plants, and large windows to let in ample amounts of light. The menu is a big black chalkboard that hangs on the wall behind the counter and bakery display to the right.
There is one woman about my height with long black curly hair and a light olive complexion. She’s wearing a green apron and simple clothing that somehow looks more than simple on her. Her back is to me as she wipes down the countertop in between the espresso machines.