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“Complicated,” he murmurs along with something else I can't hear over a cheer in the bar that seeps through the door at his back.

“Zander.” So many things I want to tell him. So much meaning in my single utterance of his name.
It's okay—I don't want to want you either. I get everything you're saying about why you came here. I can't have any complications right now.
Yet not a single one comes out of my mouth. Because while they are all true, right now, in this moment, I'd be lying.

He finally stops pacing and looks over to me with his hands fisted at his side and shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. Kissed you. Shouldn't have laid my shit on your doorstep and made you feel like it's your fault. . . . This wasn't part of the plan when I came here. I was steering clear of women and then, fuck, there you were and now you're just
everywhere
.” When he takes a step toward me, I hold my breath, a part of me unsure what I want more: him to kiss me again or to walk away. “I think it's best if I stay on the boat for a few days, work there on those repairs, clear my head, get back on track. . . .”

Boat? What boat?

“Zander, I—”

“Save yourself, Getty. Let me go. You'll thank me in the end for it.”

I
wake with a jolt. My heart racing and face sweaty from the nightmare. From the monsters and bad men who were chasing me. And the screams. They were so loud, so scary—they seemed so real. The last one begging for help was the worst.

I blink my eyes. Over and over. And the nightmare slowly goes away.

The bed creaks when I sit up. My throat is dry and this room is hot. Water. It's all I want and it's against my dad's rules to keep any in my room because of the cockroaches. I think about sneaking to the kitchen to get some from the tap, but I'm not allowed to leave my room after I've been put to bed.

Never. My dad's hand reaching for his looped belt. The sting when it hits my bare bottom. The threat of it keeps me from breaking the rules.

But maybe they're asleep. Maybe Dad's put enough of that
heaven
in his arm that he's on the couch in that kind of sleep where his eyes are partway open but he's really not awake. If that's the case, then Mom will be asleep in her room, because then that will mean the other men who come over will be gone too. The ones who sit with Dad and his lighters and crooked spoons and icky needles, because she'll only go to sleep after they leave.

Because then she'll know I'll be safe.

I cough, try to swallow to wet my throat, but it doesn't work. And now all of this thinking about water is making me have to go pee.

Like go pee really bad.

With my stuffed doggy tight to my chest, fingers pressing on the lumps in its stuffing, I get out of bed and tiptoe to the door. Right when my hand twists the knob, a scream fills the hallway. It's loud and horrible and sounds just like my dream did and scares me. I freeze, but it goes on and on and on.

Mommy.

Instantly, she's all I can think about, the only one I worry about. Tears blur my eyes as I rush down the hall. It's the smell that hits me first. That strange scent like when I get a nosebleed, but this time it's not just in my nose—it's everywhere.

When I enter the family room, my dad is standing near the front door. He looks funny, like something is wrong. His hair is in his face and his shirt is dirty with big, dark splotches all over it. He looks up and his face is scary mean, and he's out of breath like when he gets some of the “bad heaven” that makes him go kind of crazy.

I shrink back. I don't want to get in trouble for breaking his rules. Especially when he has this look on his face.

“Zander.” My name is a whisper. There's a gurgle of sound. A whimper in pain.

The fear of my dad is forgotten the minute I notice my mom on the floor at the end of the couch. All I can see is her arm stretched out above her head and her face from the nose up.

“Mom.” I say it once, but her name repeats in my head over and over as I run to her and drop to my knees. There's blood everywhere. It's all I can see, all I can think of as I grab her hand and tell her I'm here. My tears fall on her cheek. They wash away a spot of the blood there.

And holes. There are holes everywhere on her. Little holes marked in red. Big holes with even bigger red. On her chest and her tummy and her arms and her throat.

She moves her head to look at me. Her hair falls off her
face and I see it. The handle of the scissors looks funny standing up out of the side of her neck.

Her previous warnings not to run with scissors flicker through my mind. Did she run with them? She couldn't have. She's lying down.

Something's not right. Can't be. My brain isn't working, my body frozen in fear.

“Dad!” I remember he's in the room. Look up to get help. But he's right there. Looming above me. Like the monster in my dream. And I see the spots on his shirt are dark red. Just like the dots of it over the skin of his arms. His hands.

Just like blood all over my mom.

She gasps. I think she says “No,” but I don't know because it sounds like she's underwater.

My whole body shakes. My eyes blink over and over, but I can't make this nightmare go away.

Get up. Call the police. Get help. Save her. Save me. Mom. Oh my God, Mom. I need Band-Aids. Fix her cuts. Stop the bleeding. It will help.

Band-Aids. Go get them to help her.

But I don't move. Can't.

“If you tell anyone you saw me, I'll do the same thing to you.” His words shock me. But I know that tone. Know when he uses it, he means business. The sting of his belt on my bare bottom is a constant reminder to listen to him.

The door shuts with a slam.

I need to help her. Have to. My hand on the scissors.

The blood like a river. The silver stained red.

A gasp of breath. Blank eyes staring up at me. Her hand limp in mine.

If you tell anyone you saw me, I'll do the same thing to you.

It doesn't matter.

I won't tell anyone.

I don't think I could speak if I wanted to.

“Where the fuck am I?” Something startles me awake as the dream ends, disorients me, confuses me. I take quick stock of things: It's dark outside now and the towel from my shower earlier is still wrapped around my waist.
I shove up out of the bed, swing my legs over the edge, and scrub my hands over my face to give myself a second to deal. And to give me time for a running start to escape if this is the dream and that was my reality.

My pulse pounds. My head is so fucked by the nightmare it's not even funny. The breath I blow out doesn't help. The repeated
fuck
s I say out loud to the empty room don't either.

I've dreamed that nightmare so many times I know it by heart. Because it's not a dream. It's my memory. My childhood reality. So perfectly clear. Like I'm back there. The smell. The fear. The sound of my mom's voice. So damn bittersweet. My mom's last words, my last memory of her . . . is my worst memory of her. Time hasn't faded any of it. Time hasn't healed old wounds.

Fuck no.

But why now? Why did the nightmare come back after so many years without it?

And then I remember the one part of the dream that's new.
The scissors.
The hilt in her neck. The slippery feel of it beneath my fingers. Her whimper in pain as I pulled on it. The gush of blood. How I tried to save her.

And ended up killing her.

I roll my shoulders. Take in a deep breath. Rationalize in my adult mind that the little boy trying to save her didn't really kill her. The autopsy may have said that the cause of death was her bleeding out when the scissors lodged in her jugular vein were removed, but I know deep down she was dead before that.

But knowing it and accepting it are two entirely different things. And accepting it and not letting it fuck you up is even harder.

I nod my head and take a deep breath, knowing that's why I'm here: to deal with the past at last so I can make things right with those who gave me a future.

And it's all because of the goddamn box.

The one delivered to my house out of the blue weeks ago that stole the peace I'd found years ago. The one I made the mistake of opening. The words on the first packet of paper I picked up knocked me flat on my ass.
Causing me to question everything I've ever known. About myself. My memories. And the fact that others in my life knew the truth when I didn't.

That fucking packet of paper: a copy of my mom's autopsy report. The truths it held shocked the shit out of me. Brought memories and images that I'd repressed as a child to come back with a vengeance and fuck me up. Those truths had been much too harsh for a seven-year-old boy to accept. I'd moved forward never knowing there were blank spots in my memory that needed to be filled: my hands on the scissors and the final sound she made when I pulled on them.

Does it really matter all this time later?
Yes, because if I couldn't remember something so goddamn significant, what else am I not remembering? What else has been kept from me?

Fucking ghosts I thought were dead and buried are now back with a vengeance.

That's why I shoved the autopsy report in the box, taped the flaps of cardboard back up—to try to pretend like the life I've been living isn't built on a lie.

Like the memories aren't bullshit.

And now that box sits in the corner over there and taunts me. Makes me wonder if the rest of the stuff in there is just as jarring as the first thing I saw.

Curiosity—it's more dangerous than fear.

It's the reason why I'm here.

And while I'd like to be angry at Colton for firing me and forcing me away from the track, this isn't on him. Not in the least. I'm man enough to admit that.

To myself anyway.

Distance has allowed me to see that. The step back Colton forced me to take, the time to reflect with a clear head without the distractions I was drowning myself in—alcohol, women, adrenaline—allowed me to realize the truth.

And now I'm left not only to deal with the ticking time bomb of a box in the corner, but to figure out how to right the wrong choices I made.

Hell yes, I could take the easy way out—torch the box
in a bonfire and choke on my pride and call Colton to apologize. Stifle the curiosity and take back the brutal words I said when I was pissed at the fucking world and just needed an out. Anger is the one emotion that makes your mouth work faster than your mind, and you better bet your ass my mouth was running.

But that wouldn't solve shit. I'd still be fucked in the head and apologies are just a Band-Aid placed on an open wound when you cut someone as deeply as I cut Colton.

I know from experience—they don't always stop the bleeding.

“And that's why you're here, Donavan,” I mutter to myself as I flop back on the bed, the sight of the ceiling much better for my psyche than the taunting cardboard box. The one I need to man up and open. Prove that without the distractions, I can deal with it. That its contents won't fuck me up any more than I already am.

Besides, I can't chase the ghosts away for good if I don't face them head-on.

And yet my first week in PineRidge is over and it still sits there. Unopened. Untouched. The question is, what else is in there? My curiosity calls for me to open it. My mental stability tells me to waste a whole roll of duct tape on it and seal it off forever.

Fucking Christ. I've dealt with this shit already. Dealt with it as a kid by crawling inside my own mind and not speaking for months. Dealt with it through endless hours of therapy and countless nights curled up in a ball, afraid to go to the bathroom for fear of what I might find again. Leading to a wet bed and a fucked-up head.

And then when my dad did come back for me, I had to deal with the chaos he brought with him again. The gun he held. Rylee, my counselor back then, protecting me at all costs. The taste of fear in my mouth. The tiny bit of desire for him to win so maybe I would die and could see my mom again. Then the gunshot. More blood again. A policeman standing over his body.

And then the freedom in knowing he could never come for me again. The fear that ended.

So yeah, I dealt with it all right. Kind of don't have a choice when you're eight and all alone in this big, bad world.

Who am I kidding?
I'm still dealing with it every day. And if the first thing I pulled from the box messed me up so much I was willing to throw everything important to me away, what happens when I open it again and discover more things I can't cope with?

But that's the point, dumbass.
To come here, deal with my shit, and prove to myself I'm the man I know I am—the man that Colton helped make me. Only then can I go back home and redeem myself. To my adoptive parents, to my crew, to the fans.

“Fuck, this is fucked,” I groan as I bring a forearm to cover my eyes when I hear the front door slam. Followed by the pad of footsteps. A giggle that throws me. Then the squeak of that damn bathroom door. And the whole reason I went and slept on Smitty's boat—the sleepless nights with a beer in hand watching the phosphorus light up the water and the tinkering with mechanical shit I have no business tinkering with—to get some space and perspective on why I'm here in the first place—just flew out the damn window.

Getty.

The old pipes in the house creak. The telltale sound that she's taking a shower. And a shower means she's naked. Goddamn, if the image of her standing in the hallway naked except for those mismatching socks that first night we met doesn't come to mind. Not like it's gone very far from my thoughts to begin with.

And yet I told Darcy we were cool with rooming together. How did I think that was a good idea? My hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you theory—room with a woman and then maybe I could avoid the temptation of all the others—isn't working too well for me now.

Daily reminders of her naked curves definitely don't help.

Not to mention I went and kissed her. Kissed her when I had no business kissing her, because I thought maybe if I got it out of my system, I'd be done and over thinking
about it. Yeah. Like that had a chance of happening the minute she made that little sound in the back of her throat that made every part of me want to lay her down and get to know what other sounds she makes.

But more than that, I shouldn't have kissed her after the way she jumped when I grabbed her arm to stop her from walking past me. That in itself tells me she's here to deal with her own shit, and kissing an asshole like me isn't going to help in the least.

I've seen flinches like that before. I lived the first seven years of life watching my mom do the same exact thing. Jump over nothing. Shrink into a corner to be out of the way.

Getty's not my mom, though. She doesn't need to be saved. She obviously saved herself.