Killers E-Book

Patrick Hodges

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After a series of personal tragedies and abuse from his alcoholic mother, eighteen-year-old Bax is determined to rebuild his life.

Using money left to him by his father, he finds a place to live and a job at the local coffee shop. But after he begins to experience psychic visions after touching certain objects, Bax realizes that a normal life may not be in store for him.

Things take a turn for the scary when he uncovers evidence that may have belonged to the latest victim of a serial killer. With no family to turn to, he enlists the help of Piper: his fellow barista and a lover of mysteries.

Together, they attempt to track the killer down before another life is lost. But are Bax's unique abilities and Piper's wit enough to the murderer to justice?

Leseprobe

Killers

The Bax Mysteries Book 1

Patrick Hodges

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Interlude

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Interlude

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Author’s Note

Next in the Series

About the Author

Check out Patrick’s other books!

Copyright (C) 2022 Patrick Hodges

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For

Trina, Cheyanne, Crescent

and everyone else who inspires me

ChapterOne

He heard me. There’s no way he didn’t hear me. I am so dead.

I duck down behind the van. I can’t even look, so I listen. For anything. The sound of a doorknob turning, floorboards creaking, anything to remind me just how big a mistake I made by coming to this awful place. I picture the man plowing through his doorway, with any of a variety of deadly weapons in his hands, ready to pick off the idiot with delusions of grandeur who thought he could tackle the boogeyman all by himself.

Yeah, like I said, a mistake. Not the first one I’ve ever made, but it just might be my last.

How did I get here, anyway?

Jeez. A girl’s life is at stake, not to mention mine, and I choose now to get introspective?

Maybe I should start at the beginning. Like, the day I discovered I had superpowers.

Don’t get excited. Despite what you’ve read in comic books, it’s really not all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, if I’d been lucky enough to find a glowing meteorite in the woods and it gave me invisibility or super-strength or the ability to shoot lasers out my butthole, that would’ve been cool.

Me? No, my big moment came in the alleyway behind the coffee shop where I work. I touched a piece of what I thought was trash, got a massive migraine, blacked out, and woke up with my face half-in, half-out of a puddle that smelled faintly—okay, not so faintly—of motor oil. Images flashed through my mind like a movie being played on extreme fast-forward, too fast for my pain-addled brain to make any sense of. Memories of a little girl’s kidnapping, confinement, and murder. It wasn’t until later that I even learned her name.

Sarah Blankenship. Ten years old. A fifth-grader at Desert View Middle School. A girl who loved her teachers, hot fudge sundaes, and her pit bull puppy Lucy.

A girl who would never see her family, her friends, or Lucy ever again.

But…wait. That’s not the beginning either, is it? Man, I suck at this.

I peek around the van again, my palms slick with sweat and my heart thundering in my chest. Still no sign of movement.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I was a loser, the poster child for not giving a crap. I was destined for prison. Or an early grave. And if I’d stayed that way, with my head lodged firmly in my ass, that’s how my story would end.

Well, the early grave may still happen. But by God, if this is it for me, it’s going to be for a good reason.

Scrape.

He’s right behind me, isn’t he.

Shit.

ChapterTwo

One Month Earlier

My stained, tattered duffle bag rests on the bed beside me as I scan the walls of my bedroom. I do my best to keep my face blank and to not stare at the head of the man kneeling at my feet, removing the device that’s been chafing my skin for the past eight months. It’s a tough task since the dude’s comb-over is the most hideous I’ve ever seen. If the few remaining hairs on his head had ever been able to cross the vast distance to all the other ones, they couldn’t now.

He’s taking his sweet time. If it were my job to go from screw-up to screw-up, releasing them from electronic prison, I’d probably want to stretch the minutes out too. He didn’t bother introducing himself as he entered my bedroom…for the record, without knocking. Good thing I was already dressed.

With an electronic boop, the ankle monitor shuts itself off. Mr. Comboverski tosses the device into an open satchel, stands, shoots me a “have a nice life” glance, and departs.

I resume staring at the walls of my room, the one I’ve shared with a kid named Kyle Hagan since my arrival at the Asterly Halfway House. My half of the room is a stark contrast with his. While his walls are plastered with posters of WWE stars like Jinder Mahal and Kevin Owens, I opted for a more conservative approach. Which is to say, completely empty.

I lock eyes with Kyle as he shuffles back into the room, depositing himself on his bed. Kid’s fifteen, short, with thick, nerdy-looking glasses and scruffy black hair. I sense a pang of sadness in his expression, and I well up a little inside. Eye contact is not his thing, so I take it seriously when it happens between us. We’ve not had many conversations since becoming roomies, but those we’ve had have been pleasant enough. My life might be crap, but it’s Minas Tirith—complete with blaring trumpets and gleaming ivory spires—compared to his. Whatever happens from here on out, I hope he finds an outlet for what must be a crap-ton of rage, one that doesn’t involve an ankle bracelet.

“Happy birthday,” he says with a thing that’s as close to a smile as his face is capable of making.

“Thanks, man.” I take a moment to wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Probably not.

I think I’ll actually miss him. God knows there were much worse roommates I could’ve had. Never once did he mouth off to me, or curse me out, or get in my face about my snoring. Because, yeah, I have a snore that could set off seismographs, or so I’ve been told.

“Any idea where you’re going?” he asks.

I give a noncommittal shrug. “Sheila told me she had a full morning planned. I’m just waiting for her to get here.”

He jerks his head at the room’s only window. “You mean your social worker? She just pulled up. Unless you know someone else who drives a green Spark.”

Curious, I rise to my feet and move over to the window. There, parked on the curb right behind Carl’s weather-beaten Buick, is a snug little two-door the same color as ripe jalapenos. In front of the car stands its owner, pretty much the only person on the planet who gives a shit about me.

She’s wearing her usual silk, floral print blouse, a light brown skirt, and white sneakers. From this distance, she can’t possibly see me through the filthy screen covering the pane, but I’m sure the smile she shoots up at my window is indeed meant for me.

“Your ride’s here,” says a gruff voice from behind me.

I turn to see the now former master of my universe filling the threshold to my now former bedroom. A smile plays over the face of Carl Benz, the administrative gorilla who runs Asterly House, which is a rarity on par with a Cubs’ World Series victory. In lieu of Netflix, unsupervised Internet access, and dirty magazines, needling Carl over his career choice has been my one major source of entertainment for the last eight months. My favorite dig is reminding him that he shares a name with a brand of car he’ll never ever be able to afford, usually by referencing his nonexistent girlfriend, who I’ve named—

“Is it Mercedes? She’s treating me to a spa day. Because, you know, eighteen.” I flash him an evil grin. Kyle chuckles under his breath, earning a stern frown from Carl.

Carl meets my eyes again, and he bares his coffee-stained teeth at me. “Dream on, asshole. It may be your birthday, but I’m the one getting the present…namely, your eternal absence.” His beer gut vibrates as he suppresses a chortle. “It fills my heart with joy to know that the next time you strike out with the law, you’ll be sent somewhere more appropriate.” He eyes me up and down, his smile morphing into a self-satisfied leer. “Somewhere, there’s an itchy orange jumpsuit just waiting for you to come along and fill it. The day you put it on, I hope you think of me.”

I notch an eyebrow. “Stop it, Carl, I’m getting misty-eyed.”

His resolve cracks. “Grab your shit and get outta here. I gotta get this space cleaned up and ready for the next loser.”

An audible sigh from Kyle fills the room. I see him sitting there, hands on knees and contemplating the threadbare throw rug someone paid five bucks for at Goodwill. It occurs to me that the kid’s next roommate may not be as compatible. Knowing Carl, he’ll stick Kyle with some bulked-up Neanderthal who likes to torture small, furry animals.

With a deep exhale, I grab my duffle bag and sling the arm-strap over my shoulder. Time to blow this shithole. But first…

I amble over to Kyle, hand extended. “Take care, man. Don’t let this place get to you. Don’t let anyone get to you.”

He looks up, a mixture of resignation and dread on his face. He limply takes my hand in his, letting me shake it for him. “See ya, Bax.”

I don’t bother saying goodbye to any of the other residents on my way to the front door. A couple of boys in the TV room shoot me a “smell ya later” look, but that’s about as cordial as it gets in this place. I let the screen door slam behind me and don’t even look back as I descend the steps for the last time.

“So, where we headed first?” My eyes are glued to the side-view mirror as Sheila hangs a left at the intersection. Asterly House disappears from sight. I heave a sigh of relief.

“Sadly, your first day as an adult is going to involve a lot of adult stuff. I’ll do my best to get you through that quickly, as you have a lot of things to celebrate.” A sly smile curls the corners of her mouth. “Did you have anything specific in mind in that regard?”

I use my thumb to wipe away the thin layer of dust covering the car’s tiny digital clock. “Let’s see…it’s just past ten a.m. We have nine hours before I can get that lap dance I know you’re dying to surprise me with. After that, I’m partying till I puke. We’d better stop by a CVS so I can pick up a pack of Trojans.” I give her a playful wink. “You know, just in case I get—”

Sheila slams on the brakes, causing me to pitch forward and bonk my head on the dashboard. I yelp in pain. “Seatbelt, smartass,” she says without a trace of apology.

I straighten up, slapping my hand over my aching forehead. “You did that on purpose.”

Her eyebrows raise, disappearing into her grayish-brown bangs. “Who, me?”

Our eyes meet for a few moments, and I let out a guffaw. She faces forward and proceeds through the now green light.

“I guess we’ll have to find a cheap motel for me to stay at until I figure the rest of it out,” I muse, brushing a lock of unkempt brown hair out of my eyes. “Hopefully, one next to a barber shop.”

She shoots me a reassuring smile. “If today goes as planned, a motel won’t be necessary.”

“‘As planned?’”

“You do remember when the court appointed me your guardian ad litem, right?”

I stare blankly. “Of…course I do.”

Sheila lets out a huff. “Boiled down, it means that I act as your representative—in financial matters, for example—until you’re able to look after yourself.”

“You mean the money Dad left me…that’s real?”

“It is.”

“Like, for real, real?”

“Yup.”

I haven’t been paying attention to where we’re going, so it’s only when we enter the parking lot of a bank that I become aware of my surroundings. The bald eagle logo grimaces down at me from the sign above the entrance as she pulls the Spark into an empty space.

She meets my gaze. “Before you go off half-cocked, promise me you’ll give me the day to convince you that you can do much better than a cheap motel.”

I barely hear her over the cha-ching! noises inside my head, but I somehow manage an “I promise” as she kills the engine.

“Good.” With a smirk, she adds, “Lunch will be on you.”

“It will?” I mock-gasp.

“Bax, in an hour you’re gonna have more money at your disposal than I make in a year. After everything I have set up for you today, a nice lunch is the least you can do.”

I brighten. “Holy shit, there really is a lap dance?”

“Course there is.” She grins evilly. “Though I warn you, I’m a little out of practice.”

All the blood in my body goes straight to my face.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, for God’s…let’s go already.” She steps out, slamming the door shut.

Through the windshield, I shoot her a hairy eyeball. “What, you think I’m gonna have an appetite now after picturing that?”

After swallowing my mild disgust and exiting the Spark, I make a show of brushing dust particles from my plain white tee and jeans and find myself regretting my decision to not wear my jacket. Early October in Phoenix is usually quite temperate, but today there’s an uncomfortable chill in the air. It seems to have gotten colder since I left Asterly.

We head inside the bank, where a white-haired guy in a blazer and tie sits me down on the other side of his desk and shows me a mountain of paperwork. Oh, joy.

My brain checks out as I fast-forward through ninety long minutes of signing my name to a gazillion documents, which is even more tedious than it sounds.

Even so, I leave the bank with an actual smile on my face, now the proud owner of my very own checking and savings accounts. I am officially fifty thousand dollars richer, with similar deposits to be made on my birthday for each of the next nine years. In my head, I’m already mulling over dozens of ways to spend the cash, each more outlandish than the last.

The sound of Sheila slamming the car door brings me crashing back to reality. Fifty grand is a lot of money. It’s more money than most eighteen-year-olds have, but it’s not going to buy me a Lambo, a luxury yacht, or even a house that doesn’t have a “Condemned” sign attached to it.

In the passenger seat, I slip the generic ATM card and five twenty-dollar bills into my worn faux-leather wallet and eye Sheila as we head for the next stop on her itinerary. I decide to preserve the mystery and let it happen. I’m probably still on a high from having actual cash money in my pocket again.

Five minutes after we leave the bank, Sheila turns the car onto Grand Avenue, heading northwest. “There, that wasn’t too painful, was it?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I reply. “I kept waiting for Mom to come charging through the door, screaming her head off that I didn’t deserve a penny.” I snort. “Wonder if she even knows today’s my birthday.”

“Probably slipped her mind between trips to the liquor store.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to her lately.”

I feel my stomach clench, and for once it’s not from hunger. Why’d I have to go and bring up Mom? “Nope. Haven’t talked to her in over a year. Wouldn’t even know how to reach her if I wanted to. Last I heard, she was shacked up with some guy in Prescott Valley.”

“Dwayne. They’re still together, as far as I know. But enough about her. Let’s talk about you.”

Here we go. I brace myself for the impending lecture.

“This isn’t going to be a lecture, don’t worry,” she says drolly.

I swear this woman is telepathic.

“I won’t sugarcoat it, Bax, you’ve had a tough last few years—"

“It’s been a shit sandwich.”

“But thanks to what your father left you, you have something most boys in your position don’t have—a real chance to turn your life around.”

“Whatev.”

“Bax…”

She leans forward, and my eyes return to her concerned face. She means well, and deep down, I appreciate that more than I show it. Over the last two years, I’ve given her every excuse to write me off as a loser, to cut me loose the same day the system did, but she’s stuck by me through thick and thicker. Sheila Dunbar truly puts the “social” in social worker.

I decide to change the subject. “Don’t you have other kids to bring back from the Dark Side?”

She flinches a little. “Course I do.”

“Do you chauffeur all of them around on their birthday?”

I glance at Sheila in time to see a tiny smile disappear from her face. “Only the special ones,” she says.

I realize she’s dressing it up, so I let her. Most delinquents—or at least the ones I’ve been forced to cohabitate with—carry an unhealthy amount of rage. It could be against their parents, their ex-girlfriends, or just the almighty system in general. Many of them see Sheila as the face of that system and use her to vent their spleen on. When they finally cross that legal line from childhood to adulthood, I imagine many of them give her whatever equivalent of “eff you” strikes their fancy and never look back. Which is totally unfair. Sheila’s maybe the one person in their lives who truly cares. She doesn’t coddle them, but she doesn’t patronize them either. It’s one of the things I admire about her…I sure as shit couldn’t do what she does.

“What makes me so special?” I hide my grin by facing the window.

“You’re a good kid, Bax,” she says in that voice that almost makes me believe it, “and you’re a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for. I think you can truly make something of your life if you set your mind to it.”

“Uh, thanks.” I tug at a loose thread on my T-shirt.

Sheila lets the subject drop, fiddling with her cell phone as we slow down to drive through a construction zone. I don’t own a phone, so I pass the time by wondering just what the hell I am going to do next.

What does a kid my age with above-average intelligence, no goals beyond the next party, and no direction in life do after inheriting a truckload of money? Well, “go nuts” is probably the short answer to that question. I could blow it all in no time on fancy clothes and bling, not to mention a gas-guzzling luxury car that I’d have to sell once the money ran out.

Or I could do what so-called “responsible” people are supposed to do—get an apartment, a job, and a nice TV with a gaming system so I don’t die of boredom. Yeah, I’ll go with that for now.

Sheila looks up at me, and again I feel her telepathic fingers crawling through my mind. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so scary.

I never set out to be a delinquent. Somewhere along the line, though, that’s what I became.

Is that what I still am? Can I ever be anything else?

ChapterThree

I start to wonder where the hell we’re going when we turn off 59th Avenue and into a residential area. Decent-sized houses line the streets on both sides, peppered with the occasional park, school, or apartment complex. The cars that I see parked on the homes’ wide driveways are mostly family sedans, and not a beater among them. The houses themselves don’t have much personality or variation, as they were likely all built from the same manual judging by the adobe-shingle roofs that top every one of them, but they look livable.

This is my new neighborhood? Sweet. I’m so gonna need that haircut. And a new wardrobe. And I’m definitely favoring that gaming system. There’s also this thing called Roku that I want to check out, though I still say it sounds like a Pokemon character.

A concrete slab with a huge plaque bearing the words “Arbor Vista Townhomes” catches my eye as Sheila makes a right turn into what looks to be a large, sprawling complex of buildings. My eyes widen in anticipation as I step from the car. My gaze sweeps over the length and breadth of the place. There’s a community pool, a set of playground equipment that looks brand spanking new, and dozens of trees with a few greenish-yellow leaves clinging to them for dear life.

I turn to Sheila, eyes wide in disbelief. “Are you freaking kidding me?”

Sheila drops her keys into her purse and skirts the car to face me. “What do you think?”

“It’s a complete dump.”

“Glad you like it.” She grasps my arm and nudges me toward the rental office. Still shell-shocked by Sheila’s resourcefulness, I let her guide me through the door.

The Arbor Vista Townhomes property manager is a short, squashy-looking man with a walrus mustache that comes well past his upper lip. He runs a skeptical “this is the guy?” eye over me, and for a second I’m reminded of Carl’s trademark leer. No, not creepy at all.

After a two-minute conversation between him and Sheila, he grabs a set of keys from a desk drawer and beckons us to follow him.

During the hundred-yard walk to what I assume is a vacant unit, Walrus Guy—his real name is Ted, but that’s gonna take a while to stick—recites a long list of things that I’m not allowed to do should I decide to take up residence. This includes loud parties, inviting “shady” people over, giving out the number to the security gates, yada yada. Jeez, it’s like he thinks I’m going to invite a motorcycle gang over for a beer-and-gunfire party the moment he goes home for the night. If I didn’t resemble the delinquent he obviously sees me as—and that I am, to be fair—I’d probably be offended. But if the price is right, this is a place I definitely want to live, so I’ll happily screw on a smile and treat Ted as the King of Arborvistania.

He gives Sheila and me a five-minute tour of the townhome, a one-bedroom, one-bathroom affair which is already moderately furnished with a bed, a couch, a kitchen table and chairs, and a working fridge. Utilities are free, and the rent is just under eight hundred bucks a month, a number which would have been out of the question three hours ago. I add a dresser, two end tables, and a microwave oven to the mental list of things I need to buy, which is now as long as my arm.

Ted gets a text that sends him scurrying to another unit two seconds after he locks the door, leaving Sheila and me to check out the grounds. There aren’t many people about, which I guess is not surprising for an early afternoon on a Friday. Arbor Vista has that lived-in feel without being rundown, warm and homey while still retaining an upper-middle-class sense of security. Not for the first time, I find myself impressed by Sheila’s choice. Did I say impressed? I’m thunderstruck. Compared to Asterly House, Arbor Vista is frickin’ Wayne Manor.

As if reading my mind—get out of my head, lady!—Sheila asks, “I may be wrong, but you look impressed. It’s so rare that I see that look on one of my kids.”

I nod, the snark having abandoned me for the moment. “How’d you find this place?”

She shrugs. “I have my resources. By the way, do you like children?”

Aaaaaand the snark returns. “Depends on the sauce.”

Sheila slugs my arm so hard I wince.

I assume by “children” she means, like, preteens and under. “I mean…yeah. I…guess?”

“Good,” Sheila says. “You notice those schools we passed on the way in?”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“A lot of those kids live here.” She checks her watch, then points to the expanse of grass stretching between several buildings. “In a few hours, there’ll be kids flying up and down this lawn, ready to start their weekend.”

I frown. “No one my age?”

“Not that I saw, but there are ninety units, so maybe.” She strolls back toward the rental office, and I fall into step beside her. “I have a few other places we could look at, but this is my favorite. I’d definitely want to live here.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more.

“It’s nice, but…” I scratch the back of my neck. “I don’t think Ted likes me much. Dude was giving me the stink-eye the second I walked in.”

“Pfft,” she scoffs. “I know his type. He’s harmless. Pay the rent on time, follow his rules, and he’ll mellow out.”

“Hrm.”

She flashes her most motherly smile. “So…you’ll take it?”

Oh, that smile. Warm as sunshine, powerful as the Death Star tractor beam.

“I’ll take it.”

“Whew,” she says. “Thank God, because I was totally lying about having other places to show you. Now about that lunch…I’m feeling like barbecue today.” She disappears back into the office.

I laugh, and there’s no stopping my grin.

I’ve heard about that strange, floaty sensation people get when experiencing extreme joy. Sweet Jeebus, I think this is it.

Hello, new life. Great to finally meet you.

Suck it, Carl.

Walrus Guy—sorry, Ted—looks surprised when he runs my debit card through his swiper thingy, and my first month’s rent payment goes through. This, after yet another hour of listening to him repeat every rule in the Arbor Vista manual and signing papers. I swear, I’ve signed my name more times today than every day in my entire life. Combined.

It doesn’t stop me from smiling when he hands me my townhouse and mailbox keys, and the code to the walk-in and drive-in gates. Sheila’s grin is even larger, which doubles the warm fuzzies.

Several hours later, we’re back in the Spark, its backseat and trunk full of stuff I’ve spent the last few hours purchasing—clothes, shoes, a microwave, an alarm clock, three bags of groceries, and some basic toiletries. Our last stop before the barbecue restaurant was a close-out furniture store, where I picked out a pair of end tables that looked both durable and cheap.

I face forward, my stomach reminding me in no uncertain terms that indulging in the restaurant’s bottomless baked beans was not a good idea. I’m gonna be reenacting the campfire scene from Blazing Saddles later, I just know it. I give a weak groan, hoping Sheila will take that as a cue to bring me home and let me slip into a food coma until the end tables arrive. But no, there’s apparently one more stop we need to make.

We’re only about a half-mile from home when Sheila unexpectedly turns into another parking lot, right across the street from Glenview Community College. I scan the signage above the cluster of storefronts that make up one of many, many strip-malls in this part of town. From right to left, I see a taqueria, an income tax place, a ninety-nine-cent store, a barber shop, a Middle Eastern restaurant/bakery, a dry cleaners, a cell phone outlet, and a hip-looking coffee shop. The parking lot is packed, but the greatest cluster of vehicles fill the spots closest to the coffee shop, Hill O’ Beans. Sheila expertly squeezes the Spark in between two SUVs, and in we go.

From the clock on the wall, it’s going on four-thirty and every one of the twelve tables in the place is filled. Mostly with teenage girls. And I’m not talking high-schoolers, I mean girls my age. I instinctively run my fingers through my unruly mane in a haphazard attempt to make myself more presentable. I hope the coffee here is good. Judging from the mixture of pleasant aromas wafting past my nostrils and the lack of available seats, it is. Too bad I’ve already had my fill o’ beans today. Heh. I kill me.

I nudge Sheila’s shoulder. “I’m stuffed, Sheila. I’m not even thirsty. What gives?”

She steps in line behind four other customers. “We’re not here for a meal.”

“Then what?”

She hits me with the motherly look again. “You have your freedom, Bax, and that’s great. It’s also not enough. Today represents a huge turning point for you. But the question is, in what direction will you turn? Will you go back to being an immature hooligan, or will you make an effort to be a productive member of society?”

I stare blankly at her. That ton-of-bricks feeling people get in moments of clarity? I just got it. I’ve known for months that this day would come, and I have no…plan…whatsoever.

For most of my childhood, Mom seemed to think my one ambition should have been to be as awesomely great at everything as my brother AJ. One only had to look at his trophy shelf, which stretched from end to end across his bedroom wall, that this wasn’t going to happen. I never wanted to be him. I just wanted to be me, but from my eighth birthday on, AJ was the Top Dog and I was the Little Dog who drank out of the toilet.

Ambition is a strange thing. How does one suddenly get something one never had in the first place?

I sigh. “What’d you have in mind?”

“You need a job.”

Before I say something along the lines of I object, Your Honor!, she gestures at the crowd of people enjoying their drinks. “Look around you, Bax. You need a healthy environment where you can learn, provide a valuable service, and use the people skills I just know you have.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Serving overpriced caffeinated beverages to college students is a valuable service?”

“Don’t knock caffeine. Without it, the world would collapse.”

Can’t fault that logic. “And what makes you think this place would hire a guy with a checkered past and no previous experience?”

Her motherly look morphs into a wolfish smile. “I have some pull with the owner. Come on.”

We’re up next, so we approach the counter. For the first time, I notice the man working the register. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, around thirty, with light brown hair and a friendly smile. His eyes light up in recognition when he sees Sheila. “Hey, pretty lady! Long time no see! Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

The tension drains from Sheila’s shoulders, and she slips into the kind of routine conversation that longtime friends have. “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Half my kids think I’m an angel, the other half think I’m the Devil.”

His gaze turns on me for the first time. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I say.

“Bax, meet Austin, the owner and manager of this fine establishment,” Sheila chimes in. “Austin, this is Bax.”

He proffers his hand, which I take. Dude’s got a grip like The Rock. “Nice to meet you, Bax,” he says.

“Same here.” I shoot a casual glance behind us to make sure our protracted conversation isn’t holding up the line, but it’s just us.

“Bax needs a job,” Sheila says, getting right to the point.

“I see.” Austin’s smile diminishes. “First job?”

I nod. “Is that a problem?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. We get a lot of first-timers here.” He crouches down for a few seconds, and I hear rummaging sounds. He emerges with a pen and an application form, hands me both, and gestures at a table that just opened up. “Have a seat and start filling this out. I’ll be along in a minute to ask you a few questions.”

“Okay.”

Austin graciously wipes down the table and even pulls out the chair for me. Man is polite, I’ll give him that.

Filling out the application is a little surreal. I chuckle as I fill in the box asking me how long I’ve lived at my current address with “three hours.” Irony turns to full-on embarrassment as I zoom right past the Previous Employment and Education sections, then grim finality when the only reference I can write down is Sheila. She is, literally, the only person I know. Well, there’s Carl, but he wouldn’t sign my stay of execution. I doubt Walrus Ted would vouch for me either.

I’m just about to sign my name when I notice a girl in a Hill O’ Beans apron sitting at a table in the corner. Her fiery red hair is pulled back into a ponytail, flyaway strands curling behind her ears. Her brown eyes peek at me curiously over a pair of violet cat-eye glasses. She looks like a librarian, an image completed by the worn paperback she’s holding in her left hand. Beneath her dark green apron is a navy-blue polo and khaki pants with frayed cuffs. Her cute little sneakers, black like my Converse, probably serve her well for being on her feet for hours at a time.

Her eyes blaze with curiosity, the corner of her mouth ticking up when our gazes meet. In the next instant, her face smooths into a look that I interpret as “You’re applying for a job? Are you going to be the guy who helps me lift the heavy boxes or the douchebag who calls in sick even though you’re not really sick and I get stuck with your shift?”

Austin appears, shoots a glance her way. “Piper, you almost done with your break? I have an interview, and I need you on the register.”

Piper closes her book. “You got it, Boss,” she says in a voice that, if I wasn’t looking at the face it came out of, I might mistake for that of a twelve-year-old. I watch as she settles behind the counter, then turn to Austin, now sitting across from me.

“Let’s take a look,” he says. I hand him the application, and his eyebrows immediately go up. “Is that really your first name?”

And boom, all the blood rushes to my face again. “Yeah. It was my grandpa’s name. Don’t spread it around, okay? I’ve gone by ‘Bax’ since I was eleven.”

“Not a problem.” He returns his attention to the form, and a smile appears. “Three hours. Cute.” I shift in my seat. “Oh…” His smile widens, and he looks up at me. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

He rapidly scans what little information I’ve given him, then places the application back in front of me. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he says, folding his hands in front of him. “You turned eighteen today, moved into a new home, and now you’re looking for a job.”

“Yup.” I sweep my eyes across the room. “Nice place you got here.”

Austin beams with pride. “Thanks. It’s been a lot of work, but I finally got it to where it needs to be. You like coffee?”

“I guess. Never really had anything fancy.” I take a hearty whiff, enjoying the spicy fragrances that permeate the place. “Smells awesome, though. Anything would be better than the sludge I had to drink back at the ha…” I catch myself. “At the house I used to live in.”

He adopts a stern expression. “Let me be blunt, Bax. I know about your…situation.”

I gulp. Just how much did Sheila tell this guy? “You do?”

“Well, not that much. I know you’ve been in some trouble.” He relaxes a little. “Hey, I was a teenager once. Thing is, eventually you have to grow up. Sheila speaks very highly of you, and I think very highly of her. She says you need a fresh start, and if that’s truly what you want, then I respect that. For that reason, I’m going to take a chance on you.”

I damn near faint. “Just like that?”

The smile returns. “One of the benefits of being the boss and the owner.”

“Do I have to call you ‘sir?’” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

He looks horrified at the question. “You do that, and I’ll fire you on the spot.”

“Gotcha.”

“My name is Austin,” he says. “If I’m in a bad mood, which I’d like to think is almost never, you can call me ‘Mr. Wagner.’ Or ‘Boss,’ if you’re more comfortable with that.”

I nod.

“I’m not a hardass, but I have zero tolerance for bullshit. When you’re on the clock, I expect you to work. No showing up hungover or high, no thirty-minute smoke breaks, no locking yourself in the restroom to play Candy Crush.”

His mention of alcohol stings a little, and for a second, I picture Mom passed out on the sofa, clutching an empty bottle of gin. I cover up my flashback with a laugh. “I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs, and I have no idea what Candy Crush is.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well then…” He presses his palms together and bows like a Zen master. “Welcome to Hill O’ Beans. The next pay period begins on October 1st, which is next Wednesday. That gives you five days to get settled in your new place. Is that okay?”

“Sounds fine. I could come in earlier if you want. It’s not like I have anything else going on.” Which is kind of sad, actually.

“I appreciate the offer, Bax, but Wednesday is when I need you. Be here at five sharp to start your training, young Padawan.”

Huh. He likes Star Wars. Another point in his favor…wait, what? “Five a.m.?”

“Don’t keep me waiting.” He beckons to someone over my shoulder. A few moments later, Sheila appears at our table.

“So…how’d it go?” she asks. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, like a little kid waiting in line to see Santa Claus.

Austin gestures toward me like a game show announcer. “Meet our new barista.”

Sheila smiles so widely, her eyes crinkle into half-moons. Oh, God, woman, please don’t cry.

The gushing I expect instead fizzles into a sincere, “Congratulations, Bax.”

For like the fifth time today, I’m overwhelmed. Over the years, I’ve learned to keep my emotions in check, but today it’s been so much, so fast. I swallow down a mini-gush of my own and rise to my feet. Austin stands as well, and we shake hands. I wince again. I’ll be favoring my left hand for the rest of the day.

Note to self—do not arm-wrestle Austin.

I turn to Sheila. “Shall we go?”

She fishes her car keys out of her purse. “Here. You can wait in the car. I need a few minutes.”

“Actually…would it be cool if I checked out the cell phone place next door?”

“Okay.”

I move to leave, but Austin stops me. “One last thing…if you could get a haircut before you report for work, that would be great. I don’t mean to be strict, but appearances matter, you know?”

I smile. “It’s on my to do-list.”

“Great.” He points out the window. “Four doors down is a barber shop. Go there, ask for Nico. Tell him I sent you.”

“Will do.” I nod goodbye, and head for the door.

I’m halfway there when my heart literally stops, and my mouth flops open like a dying fish. Entering the coffee shop is the most stunningly gorgeous girl I have ever seen in my life. Dark blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, skin that perfect shade between pink and pale. A few freckles dust her nose. Are you kidding me? Oh my freaking God, I love girls who rock the freckles.

My feet turn to cement blocks, and I pray that the mountain of beans I ate for lunch doesn’t choose this moment to return.

It takes a tremendous effort to shift my gaze away as she walks by Bax the Fish-Faced Doofus. I meet Freckle Girl’s eyes, just for a second. She gives me a flirtatious smile and a wink, and my insides dissolve into goo.

Is she a regular? Holy hottie, I hope she’s a regular.

If she’s here, that means she likes coffee. I wonder what her usual is. Does she have a usual? I bet she has a usual. I need to learn it. So I can make it for her. Every. Single. Day.

She winked at me. You don’t wink at total strangers unless there’s something there, right? Does that mean we have a thing?

Piper is all smiles as she takes Freckle Girl’s order. I throw a bucket of cold water on my raging hormones, and force my eyes to find something else, anything else, besides her butt—stop staring, you tool! You’re an employee now! Do not creep out the customers!—to focus on. I zone in on the TV bolted near the ceiling above the register. It looks like the five o’clock news has started, and the top story is…

Oh, man.

A girl, missing for a week, has been found. Not alive. They flash a picture of her on the screen, and I cringe. She can’t be more than ten.

I turn away, my buzz officially harshed, and head out the door.

Interlude

“So that’s him,” Austin says, watching through the window as his newest employee disappears down the sidewalk. “The kid you’ve been going on about for the last two years.”

“That’s him.” Sheila dabs at her eyes with a napkin. “God, I’m a mess.”

Austin crosses his arms, fixing her with a stony glare.

“What?” she demands.

“He doesn’t know, does he.” It’s a statement, not a question. “He doesn’t know any of it.”

Sheila matches his frown. “No. And you’re not going to tell him.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I hate secrets. It’s so middle school.”

“Austin—”

“I won’t say a word, I promise. But he’s gonna find out eventually.”

“I know. That’s why he’ll need a support system.”

Austin leans in. “I understand your attachment to this kid, but you’re not his mother. And he’s not…”

“He’s not what?” Sheila asks through gritted teeth. “Say it.”

“He’s not Anthony.”

“I know that,” she hisses. “This isn’t about that. It’s about Jeremy. I owe him.”

They have a long, unspoken conversation. Austin smiles, and the tension evaporates between them.

“How’s Daniel?” she asks, the cordial smile locked back in place.

Austin gives a tight smirk. “He’s fine.”

“How long have you two been together now?”

“Three years this Christmas.”

Sheila stands. “Tell him I said hi.” She makes a move toward the door.

“Aunt Sheila?”

She looks at him expectantly.

“Just to be clear…every kid deserves a break, and I’m all for giving him one. But I have a business to run. There’s a drawer in my office with twenty applications filled out by kids who have high school diplomas and don’t have criminal records. If he mouths off, or steals my inventory, or blows off his shifts, I will fire his ass in a hot second.”

“I expect no less.”

He stands and gives her a friendly hug followed by a peck on the cheek. “Danny and I cook dinner every Sunday night. You’re always welcome to join us.”

“I may take you up on that. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

ChapterFour

Thump.

I rouse from sleep, lifting my head an inch and turning toward my new alarm clock, which reads 10:48 a.m. It takes a full five seconds for me to register that I’m not at Asterly anymore, even though I’d spent hours last night celebrating that fact, an occasion just as joyous as finally turning eighteen. For a minute beyond that, my panicky brain wonders if Carl has tracked me down in order to torture me with another snap inspection. That’s totally something he’d do.

I listen for the sound again. It doesn’t come, so I sigh and lay back onto my awesome pillow—quite possibly the softest thing in the universe—reveling in the quiet.

I had gotten so caught up in the events of yesterday that it wasn’t until I broke in my new shower—I practically squealed in delight when I realized I didn’t have to share a bathroom with another living soul for the first time ever—that it really hit me how much my life had changed in one short day. More specifically, it was when I massaged the rough patch of skin that had been hidden underneath the ankle bracelet for the last eight months. The constant reminder of my innumerable failures was gone. In its place was a new home, a new job, a new path.

After years of moving from one person’s shit-list to another, I was free. Free. No more shakedowns, body searches, or metal detectors. No hostile glances from my pissed-off housemates or baleful sneers from Carl. No gunshots or police sirens that could be right next door or five blocks away. No pounding on my door at sunrise to get my ass out of bed.

Nothing but…silence.

It was beautiful.

And freakin’ terrifying. So terrifying, in fact, that after two hours of tossing and turning, I resorted to playing on the brand-new Galaxy I bought at the store next to Hill O’ Beans. With no TV or gaming system yet, I was up till stupid o’clock last night playing Candy Crush. Blame the app store, it was front and center and my idiot brain just had to see what Austin was talking about. Fair point—that shit is addictive. I’m not sure if I spent six hours playing it or if it was just four and the rest was me having a high-res dream about kicking over pieces of candy while some deep, masculine voice said “Sweet!” every time I knocked a bunch off the board.

I reach for the phone sitting on my new end table, confirming that it’s off and fully charged.

Thump.

What the hell?

I throw on a clean tee and a new pair of jeans, forgoing my Converse for a pair of flip-flops. Wiping the crud from my eyes, I rake a hand through my hair and head for the living room.

I peek through the spyhole thingy in my front door, wondering if I have a visitor. I see nothing.

Shrugging it off, I move to the kitchen. There’s nothing left of the pizza I ordered last night but a few crumbs, so I snag a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts from a cabinet, where it currently occupies a shelf by itself. The pastries fall out as I fumble to remove the foil wrapper. They break apart on the counter, exposing the fruity inside like strawberry veins. I’m too lazy to wait the thirty seconds of microwave cooking time, so I start chowing down.

Thump!

Whoa, that was loud. Sounded like an angry bull attempting to break through my front wall.

Curious and annoyed—mostly annoyed—I step through my front door and nearly get a soccer ball right in the junk. The thing ricochets off my thigh, rolls five feet, then dies on the grass where the sidewalk meets the lawn. I lean down and grab it, then look up to meet the eyes of three girls staring up at me with wide, fearful expressions.

Judging by their height and clothes, I’m guessing they’re around nine or ten. Two of them slowly back away like I’m going to go all wild grizzly bear on them. The one in the middle, the smallest of the group, stands her ground.

I take a moment to study her. Her dark brown hair is tied in a braid that pulls over her right shoulder with a neon orange elastic tie at the end. It’s a lot warmer today than it was yesterday, which explains the bright orange board shorts and the white Wonder Woman tee she’s wearing. And then there are her eyes. I’ve heard of girls having huge, doe eyes before, but these have to be the doe-iest. Starving puppies have nothing on this girl.

She whispers an awed “wow” under her breath. And she’s staring at me like I’m a superhero or a rock star or some uber-celebrity. Which…huh?

I smile and hold the ball out. “Uh, is this yours?”

She exchanges a backward glance with her friends, who shrug. Then she steps forward, her face apologetic. “Um…yeah. Sorry about the noise. We were having a contest for who could bounce the ball off your door the hardest.” She gingerly takes the ball from me. “We didn’t think anyone was home. No one’s lived there since Mrs. Peterson moved out.”

I scratch the back of my neck. “I, uh, just moved in yesterday.”

Her button nose scrunches. “I didn’t see a van.”

“Didn’t really need one. Don’t have a lot of stuff.”

The tallest of her friends, sporting a tan complexion and wire-frame glasses, chimes in. “Trina, the ball?”

She shoots them a don’t embarrass me glare. “Just a minute! He’s our neighbor!” She turns back to me with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m Trina, and these are my friends, Cheyanne and Crescent.”

Cheyanne, dark-skinned and round-faced, smiles. Crescent, the bespectacled one, still looks undecided as to where I fall on the Creep-O-Meter.

My eyebrows raise. “Those are some…interesting names.”

Trina smiles like I just paid her the biggest compliment ever. “Thanks.”

Crescent holds out her hands, and Trina tosses her the ball. Both Crescent and Cheyanne nod goodbye and dash off, kicking the ball around. Three other kids appear out of nowhere and join the fun.

Trina faces me again. “My name’s actually Katrina, but I don’t like being called that because of the hurricane.”

“I totally get that.”

She steps closer. This girl is so adorable it almost hurts to look at her. “What’s your name?”

“Bax.”

A smirk tugs at her lips. “Bax? That’s…”

“Interesting?”

“Weird.”

I chuckle. “It comes from my last name, Baxter.”

Her mouth opens in a silent ahhh. “What’s your first name?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug and brushes her long bangs behind her ear. “I’m a kid. It’s what we do.”

“Fair enough. My first name is…too embarrassing to say out loud.”

She looks past me. “You’d better close your door. You don’t want to get in trouble with your parents. My mom hates it when I do that.”

My gaze falls to my flip-flops. “No parents. Just me.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

Sadness flashes through her eyes, followed by a hopeful glint. “Well, if you need a friend, I’m right next door.”

My brow furrows. “You want to be my friend?”

She folds her arms. “Only if you pass the Trina Test.”

“What’s the Trina Test?”

“You’ll see,” she says with a catty grin.

“Trina!” comes a voice from behind me.

I turn to see a woman, I’m guessing in her early thirties, scrutinizing me from the doorway ten yards from mine. Her dark, shoulder-length hair frames a face that closely resembles Trina’s, and her arms are crossed over a stained white apron.

I wasn’t lying when I told Sheila I liked kids. Truth is, I’ve had little experience dealing with them, especially girls half my age. The last thing I want to do is piss off some helicopter mother with the local precinct on speed-dial by coming three inches too close to her child.

On the other hand, I’m part of this community now, and I don’t want the neighborhood kids to start referring to me as the Jerk From Unit 24. That’s a grapevine I don’t want to test.

“Hey, Mom,” Trina beams and runs over to her, beckoning for me to follow.

I amble over, breaking out my most disarming smile. I catch a whiff of something wafting through Trina’s front door. Something awesome.

“Who’s this?” Trina’s mom asks, her tone wary but not unfriendly. She, like Trina, gives me the once-over in a way I can only interpret as muted reverence. Have these two never seen a teenage guy before?

“It’s okay, Mom, this is our new neighbor.” Trina gestures to my front door, which is still ajar. “His name is Bax.”

“Hi,” I say, extending a hand.

“Gina Forrester.” She returns the handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

Trina and Gina? Did I just step into a sitcom? There are really families whose names rhyme? “You too. Your daughter was just about to give me the Trina Test.”

Gina’s eyes flick to Trina. “You’re giving him the Trina Test?” Her mouth twitches with a smile. She tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, her eyes intent on Trina.

I frown. “Uh, should I be worried? What happens to people who fail the Trina Test?”

The catty smile, apparently a Forrester family trait, appears on Gina’s face. “Let’s just say it’s in your best interest not to.”

Oooookay.

“First question,” Trina says, striking a pose like an English professor. “Do you prefer chocolate or vanilla?”

I raise my eyebrows at Gina. She raises hers right back and nods. Girl is serious. “Uh, chocolate?”

Trina smiles. Guess I got that one right.

“Second question…cats or dogs?”

“That’s an easy one. Dogs. By a mile.” I turn to Gina. “Does this place allow pets? I don’t remember that being one of the Ted Commandments.”

Gina chuckles. “They’re allowed, but only if you pay the deposit. You have to pick up after them, don’t let them run free, and make sure they don’t wake the neighbors.”

Got it. Filing that away.