Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 198(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 198(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
As far as I can tell, Mary’s not a creep, but she’s annoying in her own way. For one thing, she’s pretty young. Mid-thirties would be my guess. Young and hopeful and tirelessly optimistic. She believes that if she can just get me talking, she’ll somehow crack the code to transforming me into a normal, functioning member of society.
You’d think after all the shit she must’ve seen in her line of work, she’d realized that kind of thinking is a waste of time. Contrary to what the brochures might tell you, kids like me don’t get happy endings.
She scrawls something onto a sticky note. “Here’s my personal cell number. If you need anything at all, please, call me.”
Mary slides the piece of paper toward me. I have no intention of calling her, but I can tell she’s not going to end this meeting until I give her something. That’s how these things work: you never get something for nothing. I take the bright-yellow square and pocket it with every intention of tossing it as soon as I leave her office.
“I mean it,” she says, catching my gaze. “Day or night.”
I can tell she wants verbal assurance that I’ll be okay, but I’m long past ready to leave her concerned expression behind. I stand and shoulder my backpack, embarrassingly light considering it contains everything I own.
She fixes me with a sad smile. “I wish you the best, Teagan.”
Outside the Department of Children’s Services building, I check my phone to make sure it’s past eleven and then text my uncle to let him know I’m on my way over. I wasn’t aware my uncle was back in town until about eight months ago, when a girl I designed a tat for said she’d bought a fake ID from a guy named Craig Moss. Most of the time, I prefer to leave the past where it belongs, but when I found out he was living in an extended stay barely two blocks from the group home, I let my curiosity get the better of me.
It was obvious from the moment my uncle opened the door that he hadn’t expected to see me again. I almost didn’t recognize him myself. It’d been so long since I’d seen his face, but the dark-brown eyes gave him away. They’re the same color as my eyes, and my dad’s eyes. It’s one of the few things I remember about my dad, aside from the sound of his Harley rumbling in the driveway.
I catch the bus on the corner, taking a seat in the back, and pull out my sketchbook to pass the time until my stop. I don’t even bother gazing out the window at the buildings passing by. If I never see this part of town again, it’ll be all too soon.
Chapter Two
Teagan
I take the grimy elevator up to the third floor of the extended-stay hotel. My Uncle Craig takes so long to open the door I start to wonder if he’s even home.
"Hey, kiddo.” His gaze darts behind me, as though he’s checking to make sure I wasn’t followed, before he sidesteps to let me into the room. “Come on in.”
I breathe through my mouth, guarding against the tang of sweat and old take-out.
"You hungry?” he asks. “I've got half a sandwich in the fridge."
"I already ate,” I tell him. It’s a lie, but I don't feel like spending the rest of the night with my head in the toilet. Craig’s a total pack rat. You can't trust anything in his fridge, except maybe the alcohol.
His cell phone jingles in his pocket. I hang out in the living-slash-kitchen area, shifting my weight while Craig takes the call. He says, “Yeah,” a few times, mumbles something about a check getting lost in the mail, and then hangs up.
“Sorry about that.” His gaze sweeps the messy living area. “Jesus, there's no place to sit in this dump,” he says. Like a stranger must’ve snuck in and trashed the place in the few seconds before I showed up. He drags a pile of clothes from one end of the couch to the other. “Go on, sit down. Put your feet up.”
As soon as he looks away, I cover my hand with my shirtsleeve and dust the crumbs from the cushion before sitting down.
Glass clinks as he rummages around in the fridge. I hope he’s not going to try to feed me again. “You wouldn’t believe how much the vultures around here charge for an oil change,” he says. “That hundred you gave me last week is long gone.”
A heap of unopened letters covers the end table beside the sofa. I scan the return addresses of the envelopes on top. Experian. TransUnion. Equifax. I pretend not to have noticed the envelopes marked “past due” as Craig hands me a beer.