Prologue
Knox
Spring,just over a year and a half before our story starts
Walking into my house,I toss my keys in the bowl on the counter and the resounding clink damn near echoes through the entryway. My mother is perched on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, her eyes glued to the TV screen.
In two steps, I’m opening the sliding glass doors to scan the back yard—empty.
“Where’s Ronin?” I ask, finding it strange that my six-year-old brother isn’t running through the house screaming his head off, like he usually does when I get home.
“What?” she asks, clearly annoyed at my interruption.
“Where’s the little man?”
“Didn't you pick him up? What time is it?”
“No. You told me not to,” I say, my voice rising. “I specifically asked you this morning if I needed to pick him up, and you told me you had it handled.”
“I would have had it handled, but today was absolutely awful and I needed your help. I hardly think it’s too much for me to ask that you stop by the schoolyard and give your brother a ride home.”
Of course, it isn’t, and that’s exactly what I’d have done if my mother had said she needed me to.
“And you always pick him up on Tuesdays. Always. Why would you even ask me? You know how it stresses me out when you ask incessant questions, Knox.”
“So he’s still at the ball field?”
“Of course, he is, because you left him there. You had one simple task and you screwed it up. Good God, I really should hire someone to help out around here, since you can’t be bothered.”
I say nothing else. I’m too pissed to speak rationally, and I’ve lived on this earth long enough to know that logic doesn’t matter when you’re having a conversation with Heather Gallagher-Dorsey. Nothing matters, except whatever emotion she’s experiencing in the moment. I grab my keys from the bowl, swipe a water from the fridge, and haul ass out the door, tapping out a quick text to Coach Collier as I go.
Knox: Sorry, Coach. There was a ride mix up, but I’m on my way to pick up Ronin now. Should be there in 5.
But it is a problem. My brother’s a freaking kindergartener and my mom couldn’t be bothered to rouse herself from whatever crisis she was in the throes of to go pick him up from tee-ball practice. So here I am, apologizing for mistakes I didn’t make, and driving like a bat out of hell in a residential neighborhood. I genuflect at the stop sign on the corner and keep an eye out for kids on bikes as I hastily make my way to the field.
I swing into the gravel lot a few minutes later and hop out of my car. Ronin spots me and runs in my direction, a wide smile on his face. “Sorry, buddy,” I say, as he slams into me for a hug. “I got held up at a meeting after school.” Yes, I lie. He’s six. Sue me.
Coach walks over. “Good job today, Ronin,” he says as my little brother buckles himself into my car. I get the sense that Coach wants to talk, so I shut Ronin’s door.
“What’s up?”
“Your mom texted to let me know you forgot to pick up Ronin. I understand you’ve got a lot on your plate—you’re a senior in high school, yada yada, but this little guy looks up to you. All he could talk about while we waited was getting to ride in your car and getting to hang out with you. He thinks the world of you, Knox, so try not to let him down, huh?”
I nod and mumble, “Got it, Coach.” Part of me wants to defend myself, to explain what really happened, to rage that my mother’s a lying, manipulative bitch. But that wouldn’t solve anything. First off, Ronin’s here. And I’m not airing my family drama to a tee-ball coach. Besides, I’ve spent most of my life taking the fall for my mother’s mistakes. Why should today be any different?
Ronin waves to the coach, and I do the same as I get into my car. “You good?”
“Yep. Coach gave me a granola bar ‘cause I was starving ‘cause I hit two home runs today. Two!”
My heart rate slows back to normal for the first time in an hour. He’s fine. He’s stuck with a narcissistic witch for a mother, but other than that, Ronin is fine. “Sounds like you could use some protein to keep that arm in good condition, little man.”
“I’m not little,” he protests. “Someday, I’m gonna be as tall as my dad.”
This is true. Ronin is the spitting image of my mother’s husband, Keith—tall with tanned skin, blue eyes, and sandy, light-brown hair. I’m guessing I take after my dad, too, because I sure as hell look nothing like my mom with her fair skin and pale blonde hair. Her eyes are blue, too, unlike my dark brown ones. I can’t say we’ve had many family portraits over the years, but in the few I recall, I look out of place.
But me being the odd man out isn’t important right now. “I bet you will, dude. For now, though, how about a burger?”
He nods, then turns to me, “But naked, except for cheese. I hate when they put ketchup on it. It makes the bread all wet.”
