Prologue
Kayla
One week ago...
"Miss Lang?"
The detective's voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. I'm sitting on our secondhand couch, the one with a rip in one of the cushions and a wobbly leg that Jason always said he'd replace someday, and I can't seem to focus on anything except the way the morning light cuts through the dirty windows.
“Miss Lang, are you listening?”
I blink, trying to pull myself back to the surface. The detective is a middle-aged white man with kind eyes and a rumpled suit. He's been talking for what feels like hours, but I keep drifting away, keep seeing Jason's face when I found him this morning. Blue lips. Still chest. So still.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I was saying it looks like your brother overdosed. We won't know for certain until the coroner's report comes back, but the drug they call Raven—it's bad news. Real bad. We've seen a dozen cases this month alone."
Raven? Like the bird? I've never heard of it before, but the way he says it makes my skin crawl.
I watch as they wheel Jason out on a stretcher, a white sheet pulled over his face. My brother. The only family I had left. Gone.
The apartment empties slowly. First the paramedics, then the cops, then the detective who leaves his card on our coffee table and tells me to call if I need anything. We both know I won't.
I sit in the same spot for another half hour, maybe longer, staring at that business card like it might have answers.
Jason’s taken care of me since Mom passed when I was thirteen. He was strict. Often cruel. He'd lock me in my room for hours. Beat me if I was so much as five minutes late coming home from school. He'd check my backpack and monitor every aspect of my life.
But he also made sure I had a roof over my head. Made sure I stayed in school and didn’t get shuffled into the foster care system. Made sure I graduated two weeks ago, even if he wouldn't allow me to go to the ceremony.
Would foster care have been worse? I used to wonder, especially on nights when Jason’s temper got the better of him.
My stomach growls, pulling me out of my haze. When was the last time I ate? I shuffle to the kitchen and open the refrigerator, hoping to find something to cook for breakfast.
Empty. As usual.
Jason refused to let me get a real job. So I used to make money tutoring other kids during lunch, ten bucks here and there for helping with math or science. Jason never knew. The money went toward groceries when his construction job wasn't bringing in enough, which was most of the time lately.
But graduation meant no more tutoring income.
Except now he's gone, I'm truly alone, and the rent is due in two weeks. I have maybe forty dollars to my name.
I grab the crumpled bills from under my mattress and head for the front door. It feels weird that I can leave the apartment whenever I want now. Maybe I can find a job while I’m out. Perhaps even at one of those restaurants downtown, where I could actually use my love of cooking.
Before I can reach for the doorknob, the apartment door is kicked open, almost hitting me as it slams against the wall.
Three men push inside like they own the place. Big men with dead eyes and cruel expressions. One of them has a bird tattooed on his neck.
"What—" I start, but they're already tearing through our apartment, overturning furniture, throwing open drawers, and tearing up the place.
“What are you doing?” My voice is high-pitched, panicky.
"Your brother owed us a lot of money, little girl," the one with the tattoo says without looking at me. His voice is flat, business-like. "We're here to collect."
"My brother's dead." The words come out shakier than I intended.
"We know. That's why we're talking to you."
I clutch my forty dollars tighter. "I don't have any money. I mean, I have this, but?—"
