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CHAPTER 1

MAX

24 YEARS AGO

“Stop,” I yell, shoving myself between my mother and my sister, planting a hand on each of their chests, pushing them apart, desperate to create a barrier—anything to get them to stop screaming at each other.

Every Friday night, it’s the same problem. My sister strolls down the stairs dressed to kill, caked in makeup, wearing a dress shinier than our kitchen floor could ever dream of being.

“Stop arguing with Mom. You’re sixteen,” I say, earning a lethal glare from her.

Truth is, I don’t really care if she goes out. This has nothing to do with being her protective big brother. I know how easy it would be for her to meet a guy with bad intentions.

I know too well what men are like.

My chest tightens as I picture the older ones, the ones who don’t flinch at the thought of snatching up a girl they know is underage. For them, that’s a bonus. That’s what’s terrifying—and it’s exactly why I should be siding with Mom right now.

But I can’t.

Something in me resists. It’s not that I want to see my sister upset or angry with me—that’s rare enough as it is. We barely ever fight. Usually, if she’s mad, I can fix it with a box of Raising Cane’s, and she forgets why she was upset in the first place.

“She’s going whether you like it or not,” I say, stepping back and crossing my arms.

Mom throws her hands up and walks away. Normally, this would start a bigger argument, or she’d tell me how irresponsible I am as a brother for “letting” my sister go out. But how exactly am I supposed to stop her? If it’s not through the front door, she’ll climb out of her bedroom window. Our rooms are side by side, and I’ve climbed in and out of my window enough times to know it’s not a threat; it’s a promise.

Most nights I snuck out; it was for a girl. I’m not proud of it, but at sixteen I was a player. I didn’t see the point in relationships. Why would I, when my parents’ marriage was already in shambles? Why should I believe I’d be any different?

And I wasn’t wrong.

Less than a year later, Mom was throwing Dad out of the house. We never saw him again. It was like he vanished off the face of the earth.

Maybe that messed me up in ways I’ll never really be able to explain. But that’s not why I’m letting my underage sister walk out of this house tonight.

I’m letting her go because I have thirteen minutes to meet Emma and help her move a body.

Yeah.

I’m eighteen years old, and I’m about to help my best friend move the dead body of a man who spoke to her the wrong way.

If I’d been in the room, I would’ve been the one responsible for killing him. No one talks to a woman like that. I don’t care what anyone says—there is never a reason to put your hands on her, not like that.

My sister turns like she’s about to bolt back upstairs, but I catch her wrist and yank her closer. My voice drops to a harsh whisper.

“Stay out of trouble. I mean it. I can’t keep killing people for you.”

Her eyes widened. My nose scrunches as I narrow my gaze, and she rips her arm away, breaking eye contact before sprinting up the stairs.

I follow, pushing into her room and slamming the door behind me. She’s already back at her vanity, applying more makeup—not that she needs another layer of anything.

“I’m being serious,” I say, my tone dark. “I can’t keep killing men. Do me a favor and stay in tonight.”

She swivels in her chair and looks at me like I’ve personally offended her.

“So you’re saying it’s my fault those men try to take advantage of me?” she snaps.

I drag a hand down my face. That’s not what I meant. It’s the opposite of what I meant.

“No. It’s their fault, not yours,” I say firmly.