Fold

“You think I'm a prostitute?” she screeches.

I blink. “Is that a trick question?”

Just how far down the rabbit hole is she?

She groans. “I don't have sex with them, you ass. I told you, I go on dates. In turn, she gives me my monthly allotment from my parents. I can't believe you thought I was a hooker.”

My shoulders rise in a shrug. “In my defense, I've never been on a date that didn't at least end in a hand job.”

“Right, well, there's none of that going on. The guys she chooses are sweet and respectable for the most part. Usually we just grab fast food and hang out.” She chews on her thumbnail. “It's a pretty simple arrangement. I go on a date with a guy of her choosing, I get my allowance. It's only once a month, so it's really not a big deal.”

“Except it is. Because she's forcing you to do something by manipulating you with your parents' money.”

She sinks against the wall. “I know. I guess I keep hoping she'll eventually get it. Give up trying to change me and accept me for who I am.”

“Is the money really that important?” When she gives me a look, I say, “No judgment here. Trust me, no one understands what a powerful aphrodisiac money is more than I do.”

“It's not about the money. I mean it is, but not because of monetary greed. The money is all I have left of them.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “And whenever she threatens to cut me off, I get scared. Like if I'm not careful, everything they left will slip right through my fingers and it will be like losing them twice.”

On some level, I can understand that. Although different reasons and circumstances entirely, the result is still the same.

She's not getting the money she rightfully deserves either, because someone else is in control of it.

People who deserve it far less than we do.

It's like a glimpse of what I can look forward to in the future.

I know my brother will gladly give me some of our father's money, that's not the issue. The issue is that it will come with his own contingencies and I'll be at his mercy. A lap dog to the rich and powerful NFL star.

Screw that noise.

I've already spent my life being controlled by a man I hate, and I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and let it happen again. No matter who it is.

Kit shouldn't stand for it either. The money will be all hers in another four years. She should tell her grandmother to go get fucked and live her own life.

“Why do you put up with it? I know the money is your tie to them, I get it. But do you really think your parents would want you to accept the way she treats you?”

“I'd like to think they wouldn't but...” Her voice trails off and she bows her head.

“But what?”

Her eyes are glassy when she looks at me. “The more time that passes, the more things I forget about them. Like the sound of my dad's voice. Or what my mom's hands looked like.” She sniffs. “I'm fortunate I have a video and pictures to help me remember those things...but lately, I'm starting to forget the things that can't be captured. The things I won't get back. Like how soft my mom's skin was. Or how precisely she applied her lipstick.” Her voice cracks like crystal. “The way my dad used to hum to himself while he was coding on his computer. Or the robot skit he did whenever I'd wander into his office.”

She folds her arms around herself. “I'm begi

The heartbroken look on her face makes my chest ache. “About what?”

“Remember when I told you I came home early from the Caribbean because I got into a fight with my Na

“I do.”

It was only a few days ago. Although now that I think about it, it feels longer.

Is that how it is when you meet someone who's supposed to be a permanent fixture in your life? Like actual time doesn't apply to your relationship because you feel like you've known them forever?

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, the reason we fought was because he showed up.”

“Shit.”

She gives me a tight nod. “I know. I haven't seen him in years, not since they pulled my parents out of the river, and he had the nerve to show up at my grandmother's condo like a king greeting his peasants. On the a

She balls her fists. “Turns out she invited him. Meanwhile, he couldn't even be bothered to come to their funeral.” She makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Which is probably a good thing because I'm pretty sure I would have spit on him and caused a scene.”

Her lips pinch. “Needless to say, I lost my shit during di

Pride swells in my chest and I smile. “Atta girl.”

She doesn't return my smile. Instead, her shoulders hunch and her gaze draws inward. “She told me to leave. She chose him, just like I knew she always would.” A breath shudders out of her. “As I was packing my bags, he cornered me in my room.”

Instantly, I'm on alert. Like a guard dog ready to attack. “Did he hurt you?”

I'm all but foaming at the mouth, ready to draw and quarter the motherfucker like they did in the old days.

“No,” she says softly. “Not physically anyway.”

Dread coils my gut as I watch her try to get a handle on her emotions. “He told me I was crazy for thinking he had something to do with their deaths, and that I was just looking for someone to blame because I was angry. And to further drive his point home, he brought up the pilot...and the pictures.”

When I give her a questioning look, embarrassment floods her features. “I...um. I had a lot of issues when I was younger. I would flip out for no reason in school—attack my peers, teachers. Basically anyone and everyone for no real reason. And when I wasn't doing that, I was drawing pictures of the pilot. Violent and disturbing pictures. Pictures that scared people.” She clears her throat. “My personality did a complete one-eighty. I was no longer the happy and cheerful little girl that I used to be.”

My urge to defend her is instinctual. “Who could blame you?”

“That was pretty much everyone's standpoint for the first few years. Until my behavior became worse and I was kicked out of school. After that, I had a private teacher and my grandmother put me into therapy. My therapist informed us both that it wasn't normal for me to still be so triggered about what happened, and my unhealthy obsession with seeing the pilot suffer...was just that...unhealthy. I was put on a few mind-numbing medications that caused me not to feel anything, good or bad, and eventually—I stopped arguing with people and stopped drawing pictures. I was allowed back in school by the time high school started.”

Her words punch a hole through my chest and I wait for her to continue.

“My uncle brought all of that up when he cornered me. He told me it was proof I was mentally unstable and making things up in my head. He said I needed to get over it and move on because it happened so long ago. That there was no reason for me to still be mourning my parents when it's not like I even knew them to begin with.”

She curls her arms around her waist. “I can't help but think that maybe he's right. Maybe I am crazy. And maybe, I never really knew my parents in the first place. How could I? They died when I was eight. I turned twenty-one last month. They've been dead for more than half my life. And now that my memories are fading and I barely have any, it's almost like they never existed at all.”