Chapter one
Paxton Ross
12 Years Ago
Myfatherdiedwitha needle and syringe still lodged in his vein.
No matter what I did or how far I traveled, I would never be able to wipe that last image of him from my memories.
"Dad?" I knocked on the door and waited for his response.
Nothing.
Pulling the worn hotel key from my backpack, I unlocked the door and threw my stuff onto my twin-sized mattress with its worn, dingy comforter. As my gaze fell onto the bed next to mine, I froze.
I tried to breathe but it was as if there wasn’t enough air to fill the small room, to fill my lungs, to fill the entire fucking world.
Dad’s long, black hair spilled across the yellowed pillow haphazardly, but my attention riveted to his open eyes, glazed and dull as they stared at the ceiling.
No, no, no. Please God no.I backpedaled, my spine hitting the chipped wooden desk next to the door.
Last night’s supper—salty fries and greasy hamburgers—still hung in the air, mixing with the mildewy scent always lingering in this part of the swamp known as Louisiana.
Mom’s copy ofPeter Panlay open on the rickety desk. For some reason, I scooped up the book and held it to my chest like a shield, as if made-up world inside could protect me from what I couldn't unsee in the real world.
Desperate , I swiveled around and jerked the door open, throwing myself outside into the gravel-packed parking lot, my lungs heaving humid breaths.
Would things be different if Momma lived?
No. I had to be realistic. For the past few years, I’d fended for myself.
With Dad gone, it won’t be any different.
But that was a lie. Everything about my existence had just changed, and I didn’t know if it would be for better or for worse.
I loved my father, even with all his flaws, yet in that moment, anger flared within my heart, burning it to ash.
He loved his drug more than he loved his son, then left me to pick up the pieces.
Who was I kidding? Pieces would imply wehadsomething to pick up. He had nothing.Ihad nothing. Every extra penny that came in from his royalties went to his next fix of heroin. Because he couldn’t kick the habit, he’d sold everything, and we’d finally been relegated to seedy motels for the past six months.
Bringing myself back to the present, I pulled a cheap disposable cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
I stared at the highway in front of the old motel.
Isthis an actual emergency?My father was very obviously dead, so it wasn’t as if they needed to rush anyone out to revive him. Knowing Dad, I imagine he shot up as soon as I’d headed out the door this morning to walk the two miles to Vinton High School.
He’d loved me at one time, but losing Momma, then his career, did something to him, broke some fundamental part he’d kept in check for her. Or maybe because of her.
After she’d died, I’d withdrawn into music and books, and he’d chased any drug that would let him escape the pain. I should’ve been angrier but bitter disappointment drowned the fury, hardening my heart.
Where will I live?We had no family and no property. Everything we’d owned had went up his arm.
I was a sixteen-year-old boy left alone and the thought terrified me.
“Hello? This is 9-1-1. Do you need help?”the operator asked once more.
