Old Money (Everett Brothers #1)

1. Sawyer

SAWYER

“I ’m fine, Mom,” I sigh into the phone as I turn the corner on Helena Street. She still makes me call her every time I leave the mini-mart. Doesn’t matter if it’s a late shift, a morning shift, or anything in between. It’s about a mile walk through a few neighborhoods back to campus, and she hates that I have to walk alone. I’ve pointed out to her that she is clear across the country from me, and if anything were to happen, there is quite literally nothing she would be able to do about it. But a mother’s job is never done.

It’s chilly for September, but I love it because it reminds me of home. I miss Seattle, and I miss my mom. But when the weather starts to turn here in New England, it gives me a little bit of that peace I feel when I’m there with her.

“I just hate that you have to work so much,” she says, which is funny coming from her, because she’s currently finishing up her shift at her first job at a coffee shop before she heads over to the diner she works at.

“Mom, it’s fine. I like working. I can pay for all my books and things from this job.

Between that and the scholarship, I’ll have almost no debt when I graduate. We’ve been through this. I’m fine. I still get to have fun. I still get to be a college kid. I am happy. I promise you,” I say. It is mostly true, other than the unbearable amounts of stress I feel at basically all times. But she can’t do anything about it, so there is no use in putting it on her too. She sighs again.

“I love you, baby,” she says. I smile.

“I love you too, Mom. I can see my dorm from here. I’m almost back,” I reassure her.

“Almost is not good enough,” she says.

“Mom,” I laugh, “it’s 3:30 in the afternoon. The sun is shining. People are everywhere. I’m fine. Just stepped foot on campus.”

She sighs.

“Fine,” she moans. “I love you. Call me later.”

As I’m rounding the corner toward the main hall, I see a figure out of the corner of my eye. As our paths draw closer, he turns his head slightly, and I can see his eyes within his hood. He has a large coat on, and it’s zipped up. He’s clutching his stomach, as if he’s holding something.

My breath catches in my throat. That feeling builds in my stomach—the one where your body knows something is wrong before your brain does.

Stop. Go back.

Our eyes meet, and my feet freeze. I break our gaze and look out at the people in the quad, playing frisbee, studying, listening to music.

And then I see him unzip his coat.

And out it comes.

Hard, cold, metal death in his hands.

His eyes are on me before he looks away for a brief second, firing one round into the air.

I hear it before my brain registers what it is.

Then I hear the hums of death as it pours bullets out. And then, I hear the screams. I’m frozen in place for what feels like eternity as his eyes find mine again. Out of the corner of my eye, a tall, slender kid who I recognize from the gym is running in my direction.

“Run!” he’s screaming, but then the bullets tear through him, hot blood spewing from his body in all directions as he tumbles to the ground, ten feet in front of me.

And then everything clicks.