Chapter 1
I couldn’t remember the last time my dad graced me with his presence, so when he strode into the kitchen Saturday morning, his ever-present Bluetooth headset clipped to his ear, I nearly choked on my bagel.
“No, the contract is already signed. Has been for weeks now,” he said, talking in sweeping arm gestures. “I’m sorry, King, but it’s my job to do what’s best for Violet, end of story.” Dad was so dialed into his conversation he didn’t notice me sitting in the breakfast nook.
The fact that this was my first father sighting in a week—even though we lived in the same house—spoke to his status as an expert-level workaholic. I was used to having my sister’s beachfront property all to myself, so it was jarring to see him standing in the kitchen as if this were his natural habitat.
“Absolutely not! We’ve been over this a million times, and I’m done arguing about it,” Dad exclaimed. “Call my lawyers if you have a problem.” He hit End without so much as a goodbye and jammed a fresh K-Cup into the Keurig.
“What’d the coffee maker ever do to you?”
Dad spun around at the sound of my voice. “Indie, I didn’t see you there.”
“And that makes it okay to manhandle the most important appliance in the kitchen?” I teased.
“Sorry, it’s been a rough morning.”
I brushed a few stray crumbs off my shirt and slid to the end of the bench. “Everything okay?”
“You know how King Williams is.” He rubbed his forehead. “The man’s an overbearing control freak who throws temper tantrums when things don’t go his way. But don’t worry. It’s nothing your old man can’t handle.”
As I carried my dirty plate over to the dishwasher, I tried to imagine the CEO of Mongo Records having a toddleresque hissy fit but couldn’t conjure the image. Then again, I hardly knew the man. The Williamses were family friends, but King was too busy expanding his music empire to have time for potluck dinners or camping trips with us. I was totally okay with that; there was something about his icy demeanor that gave me the creeps.
“Well, good thing you get to spend all day tomorrow with yours truly.” In one not-so-graceful hop, I planted my butt on the island countertop, heels banging against the lower cabinets. “What time are we leaving?”
To celebrate the start of October, our local theater was hosting a Halloween marathon, starting at noon withThe Exorcist.I’d inherited my love of scary movies from Dad, so the following fifteen hours of monsters, gore, and jump-out-of-your-skin scares would be the perfect father-daughter bonding time.
All the essentials were piled on the counter next to me: gift cards to buy popcorn and soda, five different boxes of candy I planned tosmuggle in using my purse, a bottle of caffeine pills to keep us awake, and oversize sweatshirts in case the theater was chilly. My excitement level was so far off the charts that I hadn’t been able to sleep last night.
“Leaving?”
My stomach dropped at the question. “For the horror marathon at Cinépolis, remember?” I forced myself to sound upbeat, but it was never a good sign when I had to remind Dad of our plans.
“Sweetie,” he started, and I knew I wouldn’t like what he said next. Dad only used that particular endearment when he felt guilty. “You know I can’t take the day off. What with Violet’s promotional work for the final season ofImmortal Nightsand her new career direction, I’m swamped.”
Surprise, surprise.
Dad was picking her over me again.
I should’ve known better. Violet’s priorities always eclipsed everything else. It hadn’t always been this way, although it was getting harder to remember our lives before my sister was famous. We used to be a happy family—Mom, Dad, Violet, and me—but then my sister decided she wanted to be an actress. On my thirteenth birthday, she was cast as vampire princess Lilliana LaCroix in the MTV series adaptation ofThese Immortal Nights,the wildly popular young adult trilogy.
That was five years ago, but it felt like a lifetime.
Pressing my lips tight, I counted to ten. I wouldnotlose my shit. “Dad, you promised.”
“Are you sure?” His eyebrows gathered together as he studied his phone. “I don’t see you on my calendar.”
I gripped the edge of the counter as my entire body tensed. Ever since he quit his job as a bank director to be Violet’s manager, Dad had become increasingly unavailable, but this was beyond ridiculous. “My bad,” I snapped. “Didn’t realize I had to schedule an appointment to hang out with you. Should I email your assistant so he can pencil in my birthday?”
Welp, so much for not losing my shit.
“Indie, don’t be a brat,” he said, shooting me a disapproving look over the rims of his glasses.
“Hey, just calling it like I see it.” Dad was right, of course. It was a bratty thing for me to say, but I couldn’t help it. This was the third time he’d bailed on me for Violet since the start of the school year.
“Indigo Josephine Mitchell-Jamiolkowski.”
Oh crap. The full name. I only heard that pretentious mouthful when I landed myself in dangerous waters. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I pushed back my bangs. “I’m sorry, Dad, but this sucks. I’ve been looking forward to spending time with you.”
