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PROLOGUE
He stood in front of the cabin, drawing in a breath as he dug his nails into his palm. His backpack was heavy on his back, loaded with several textbooks and twelve dollars he’d gotten for helping Chris Moran with an essay. He licked his lips, then swallowed. All he wanted was to go into the cabin, fill a cup up with ice water, and guzzle it all down, but something was making him wary.
Pointing his gaze down, he focused on the black and white Chucks on his feet. They were dirty, and there was a hole on the side of them. Fortunately, everyone at school thought it was cool and were making it a trend. The truth is, there was a hole because they were the only pair of shoes he had left. His mom hadn’t bought him any in months, though he’d been begging her to.
His mom wasn’t the same person anymore. She’d changed, even more so when she was released from the detention center. His uncle kept telling him to stick it out, to be there for her, that she would get better, but he was absolutely positive she was getting worse.
The branch of a tree above the cabin croaked and he shifted on his feet. He spotted the faded burgundy Buick parked to the left. She was home. It was now or never. He moved ahead and didn’t stop until he was at the front door. When he twisted the doorknob, it was locked, as expected, so he pulled out the key from his pocket, unlocked it, and walked right in.
As he shut the door behind him, he noticed how eerily quietly the cabin was. He was used to quiet, but this was a different type of quiet. It was too still. The faucet in the kitchen, which usually dripped at a steady pace no matter how hard you twisted the knobs to shut it off, wasn’t dripping. The house didn’t creak either, not until he slid the straps of his backpack off and it thudded on the ground. He was tempted to call for his mother, but instead went to the kitchen and filled a cup with water. When it was at the brim, he gulped it down in four swallows then set the cup on the counter.
A creaking noise came from the back of the house, and he made his way toward the hallway. The hallway light was on, but the two bedroom doors were closed. He checked his room first, because sometimes she liked to curl up in his closet with a bat. She didn’t like being in her closet because that’s where all the personal items were, the important documents and information, and his mom didn’t want the “people” looking for her to find them and steal her identity. When he saw the closet was empty, he ventured across the hallway.
A slow breath slipped between his parted lips as he gripped the doorknob. “Momma?” he called. He swallowed, waiting for a response. The only response was the heavy creaking coming from her room. He peered down the hallway, where he could see the plaid furniture. Maybe I should just go study, or take a nap, he thought to himself. His mom would come out sooner or later. Sometimes she acted like nothing was wrong, and she’d cook dinner and ask him to set the table. But during the other times . . . oh. The other times were bad. He didn’t want this to lead to the bad times. But studying and napping wouldn’t lead to the good.
If he wanted to get a hold on the situation, he needed to face her now. Maybe he could give her some pills to make her sleep the rest of the night so he could have the whole house to himself. He could use his twelve bucks to run to the store, buy some waffles and Cap’n Crunch, and eat as much as he wanted while watching cartoons. His mom never let him have that kind of food. Excitement took hold of him.
With that idea in the back of his mind, he twisted the doorknob to his mom’s room and pushed it open. But he shouldn’t have, because as soon as he saw her, he felt the urge to vomit.
She hung from a cord wrapped around a frail beam in the ceiling, feet dangling, her face a dangerous blue purple. The end of the cord was wrapped tightly around her neck and her eyes were wide open, looking right at him.
He wanted to scream.
Wanted to cry.
He wanted to call his uncle and tell him to come and get him right away.
He didn’t do any of those things though.
Instead, he sighed with relief as his mother’s lifeless body dangled from the ceiling.
PART ONE
ONE
DOMINIC
Many things can change the course of someone’s life.
A new job.
An eviction notice.
Being diagnosed with a terminal disease.
Life is never as simple as humans believe. We coast along, adapting to new environments, clinging to hope, but we all have our faults that trigger those changes. Our flaws are, ultimately, our downfall, and they are what weigh heavily on Dominic Baker’s mind as he sits in his office.
He listens to his wife Jolene move about in the kitchen, causing dishes to clink and pots to clatter. Prior to him entering his office, the kitchen had been vacant, which meant Jolene must’ve gone for a jog. He should’ve gone with her, but with the campaign for his second term as governor going and elections fast approaching, he was drowning in stress.
They’re due in uptown Raleigh so he can speak to a collective in the park. According to Jim Pilton, his campaign manager, over six hundred people will be attending today. Everyone is anticipating his presence—the well-known, forty-year-old candidate with the brown skin and perfect smile. Everyone has high hopes for Dominic Baker, the man uplifting North Carolina. That’s his slogan, anyway. Uplift North Carolina.
Now, he wishes the campaign wasn’t happening at all. He wishes that four years ago, he hadn’t been selfish and taken the role as governor. He’d have more privacy and much less to lose.
Dominic has always wanted to be in politics, though. It was his dream since high school, and he wasn’t going to let a minor mishap mess that up. He’d gone to college, run for school boards, the Raleigh city council, and was even lieutenant governor of the state prior to becoming official governor. He’d worked hard to build his status, networked with professionals, and the hard work had paid off. But, as with any successful career, there are mistakes that shape us and secrets we long to bury, and Dominic realizes this as he studies the letter on top of his desk.
Written in permanent marker that bleeds through the thin sheet of notebook paper are the words: I KNOW WHAT U DID. WHERE’S BRYNN?
Reading them again causes his heart to slam repeatedly against his ribcage, but not as hard as it had when he’d found the letter wedged between the stack of mail in his mailbox. He’d gone out to check the mail, sifted through the junk and bills, until the folded sheet of paper fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and as he’d read the words, all the loose envelopes scattered from his hands. He felt his chest cave in on itself, his throat coated with something thick and heavy.
