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Chapter Four

Dylan

J ust my luck, my new neighbor is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

All women are evil, kid. But the prettiest ones are the worst. You can’t never trust those.

Eli’s words scrape along the insides of my skull. Probably proof they were right to lock me up in that psych ward for those first couple months after they figured out who I was. Isn’t that one of the signs of a crazy person? Hearing voices in your head? Probably a double whammy when the voice is a serial killer’s.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. They let me out, right? Must mean I can’t be that far gone in the head.

Shit, I hope I’m not that far gone in the head. Hard enough dealing with everything already right now, I’m gonna need a full deck to get through this.

Don’t need a full deck to know I’m right to stay away from a girl like Scarlett Thiels, though. Hot. Privileged. Green eyes and pale skin. And hair this color I’ve never seen on a girl before. Kind of reddish, but not an orange kind of red. Lighter.

She probably knows she’s hot, too, based on the confidence that practically spews from every word that comes out of her mouth.

Probably manipulative.

And yeah, lying might be one of the few things I’m good at, but I’m not manipulative. Not fake or two-faced or complicated like I’d bet money Scarlett Thiels is. Even her name sounds evil and manipulative. Fancy. Like some rich mafia-boss wife who wears pearls and smokes one of those long thin cigarettes and exhales smoke rings in your face.

Scarlett. Like a fever. Like the color of blood.

Yeah, that girl’s got secrets. And I should know. I’ve got a few of my own. They rattle around inside my brain like chains. Loud and metallic and heavy. Hard to ever forget they’re there. But I’m pretty much used to them by now. They’re familiar, at least. And not much else is familiar these days. So guess I’m okay hanging on to them a while longer. I’m sure as hell not gonna be sharing them with anyone around here. No way I’d let them handle anything that combustible. Hell knows what they’d do with them. Probably find a way to blow them up in my face. These people are all smart as hell. Discussing and dissecting every topic and emotion that crosses their path. Not sure if having money makes you smarter or if smart people are just the ones most likely to end up with money. Either way, they’re exhausting. And intimidating as hell. I spend most of the time I’m around them feeling stupid and alien and wondering when I can go back to my room.

But Phil and Diane are out walking the dog right now, Chloe’s out with friends, and Kenz is in bed, sleeping. It’s the first time I’ve been alone in this place since I got here a week ago. Phil’s been watching me like a hawk every second of every day. It’s fine. Annoying and stifling, but I’m gonna assume he’ll chill out after a couple more days. Still, I’d like to know where all this hovering was when I was a kid. I could’ve used it then. Could’ve saved my ass. My mother’s life.

I grab a bottle of soda from the huge-ass fridge and twist off the cap. The fizz bubbles up and I take a long drink. Soak in the knowledge that I’m finally alone in this massive house. The alone part is good. The massive house part is… weird. Kind of surreal that it’s my house now. Doesn’t feel like the kind of place I would ever step inside. Sure as hell doesn’t feel like a place associated with me in any way.

The quiet weighs heavy, like it does most nights in this place. I always thought quiet was just quiet. But it feels different here from the quiet in the apartment with Eli. So calm and looming and unfamiliar that it puts me on edge.

I wander into the library, running my hand along the back of the leather couch. Never had furniture this nice before. Never even saw anywhere this fancy, except on TV and stuff.

I head down the hall, avoiding the family photos lining the walls. The ones of Phil and Diane and the girls. Everyone smiling. Running on the beach, blowing out candles, riding horses. Cheesy as fuck black and white photos that are just snapshots but still look classy. A whole life I was supposed to be a part of.

Not one photo of me as a kid. Or my mom. Or any of us from back then. Before.

A little way down the hall, I stop outside Phil’s office. Hesitate. Probably shouldn’t go in without asking. Probably shouldn’t go in at all. But maybe he’s got something that can tell me about who I was. A link to my past. Maybe a photo or knick-knack or book that could trigger a memory, even.

I hate admitting how desperate I am to know who I was before all the fucking lies, but it’s on my brain a lot. Practically on a loop. Questions I’d never ask anyone out loud in a million years. Because fuck him. Fuck Eli Sampson and the way he messed with my head. My family. My whole entire life. No way am I letting him win even more by admitting out loud that I care. Letting him control me by admitting I’ve allowed myself to wonder—more than once—if it’s a life I would have wanted. If maybe I would have liked myself better if I were one of the people in those cheesy family photos.

The door creaks as I push it open. Of course. Big fancy houses always have creaky doors. The room’s dim, only a desk lamp left on. I move to the huge wooden desk, opening drawers, rifling through papers. Just work stuff.

There’s gotta be something here. I yank open the bottom drawer. Folders, notebooks, pens. Nothing.

Fuck.

I scan the bookshelves. Law books, manuals, binders… A freaking huge-ass detailed model ship with masts the size of my arm. But on the top shelf, a photo album. I reach for it. Heart racing like it’s gearing up to launch straight out of my chest.

This could be it .

Shit. It’s just Phil and Diane’s wedding album. I slam it shut. Turn to toss it on the floor, then stop myself. This isn’t a job I’m on. A house I’m hitting for an easy couple hundred. I shove it back onto the shelf instead.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around. Chloe’s standing in the doorway, glaring.

“Nothing.” I blurt.

“You’re snooping! I’m telling.” She whips out her phone.

“Don’t—” I start, but she’s already texting furiously. Fucking great.

She’s got blush and eyeshadow on that makes her look like a tween hooker. Her friends came over after the neighbors left to all do their makeup together before going out on what I’m pretty sure was a trip to the food court at the mall. Not sure if this is typical twelve-year-old girl behavior or just typical rich girl behavior. Weird either way.

Voices sound from down the hall. The front door opening and closing. Phil and Diane are back. Chloe gives me a smug look and races off, probably to rat me out.

I glance around wildly. Don’t want Phil to see I was in here. He’ll think I’m—

My eyes land on a small framed photo tucked behind the desk lamp. A toddler with wispy blond hair like mine. And a woman holding him, smiling.

Mom .

I grab the photo just as Phil and Diane appear in the doorway, Chloe right behind them.

“Dylan?” Phil frowns. “Chloe said you were going through my office?”

“No.” I hide the small frame with my palm and slide it into my pocket, trying to look casual. “I was just wandering around.”

Phil’s gaze dips lower. In the direction of my right pocket. “Did you take something?”

My shoulders tense. “No.”

They both take a few steps into the room. They’re right in front of me now. I can smell Diane’s fancy perfume.

“Are you sure? It’s okay if you did… I just want to know.” His voice stays calm. Measured. It puts me on edge, the way he stays calm all the time.

I shake my head, meeting his eyes dead-on. “Swear I was just looking.”

Diane touches my arm, and I jerk it away on instinct. She closes her eyes for a second as she inhales. She opens them again. Leans in a bit. “We know this is an adjustment, honey. If there’s something on your mind, you can talk to us.”

“I’m fine.”

“There won’t be any judgment,” Phil doubles down. “Anything you bring up—anything at all—we won’t get mad, or judge you, or—”

“Said I'm fine.” I still don’t break eye-contact.

Phil nods slowly. Looks kind of disappointed. “Alright.” He tucks his own hands in his pockets. “Look, Dylan… we want you to feel at home here. But we also have rules… as a family. And one of those rules is that you need to ask permission before going into my office.” Then he adds, “Or in anyone’s bedroom. Alright?”

Chloe smirks and my eyes meet hers. I clench my fists. Look back at Phil. “Sure,” I bite through gritted teeth. Poke my tongue against my lip ring, not missing the way Diane follows the movement. She’s never said it out loud, but I can tell she hates the piercing. The long hair. Everything about me, probably.

Phil nods again. The smile is back. “Alright… Good.”

They’re all still watching me. Feels like I’m a rare animal in a fancy zoo. A bigger cage is still a cage.

“We done?” I glance at Diane, then back at Phil.

He gets that disappointed look again. The one that gets triggered at least once every interaction with me. Sucks, but I get it. I’d be disappointed too if I was a guy like him, with a life like his—and I found out I had a kid like me.

“Yes, I guess…” he says. “I suppose we’re done.” He looks like he’s going to say something more, but still thinking over the words. I push past them. Head for the stairs before he has a chance to say whatever it is he’s mulling over. Chloe follows right behind, and no way I’m chancing another interaction with that one right now. She’s her own brand of lethal.

I take the stairs two at a time and lose her before the first landing. Escape to my room. Shut the door. Hands still fists; still pushed deep in my pockets.

I hate that Phil thinks I stole something of his. And yeah, technically I did. Doesn’t stop me from resenting the fact that it was his first assumption when he caught me in his office, though. Or maybe he saw me pocket the photo. Whatever. Who cares? I don’t owe him anything. I’ve played nice since I got here. Followed all his rules. Sat through the long, fancy dinner with the neighbors tonight.

With Scarlett.

Not going to think about her.

Point is, I’ve put up with a lot since I got here. Done stuff with Phil. With Diane, even—clothes shopping and stuff—to make her happy and maybe like me a little more. Only I know she doesn’t. Pretty sure she’s scared of me. Like I’m some creeper or something. Like I’m him.

Eli.

Shit. I hate this. All of it. I just want one thing—one fucking thing—that feels familiar. Or real, at least. That makes me feel like I’m not a ghost floating around the huge-ass rooms in this place.

Maybe I am going crazy, because I don’t even know who the hell I am. I keep getting this panicked feeling. My heart jack-hammering against my ribcage and I’m sweating for no other reason except that one stupid question, looping and looping around my skull like a goddamn cyclone.

Who the hell am I?

I pull out the photo of me and my mother that, yeah, I technically stole from Phil. But it’s a photo of me, so it isn’t really stealing. And at least I have something now. A piece of who I am.

Was.

I study it—home in on my mother’s face. Try convincing myself she looks familiar. But I’m not as good at lying to myself as I am to other people. Still, at least she looks like she was nice. Happy. She has green eyes like mine. Or I guess, I have green eyes like hers. So that’s familiar, at least.

Yeah, I’m totally grasping at straws, here.

I slide the photo back in my pocket, then flop down on the bed. Stare up at the ceiling. It’s about ten feet high and bordered all around in wide, ornate trim.

This room feels like a hotel. A fancy-ass hotel, but still, it’s totally out of whack with any space I’ve ever slept in before. It’s too clean and too big. Too nice.

Guess I would have slept in a place like this when I was a little kid. When I had two parents and a perfect life. Some fancy toddler bedroom with trains or boats or something printed on the sheets. I wonder what I was into back then. Wonder if Phil even remembers.

He must’ve been pretty wrecked after I disappeared. Right?

Maybe not. Maybe he just moved on. Met Diane, had new kids. A new life. A better life, maybe, than with me and my mom.

Can’t really blame him. What was he supposed to do? Mourn our loss for the rest of eternity?

A soft knock at the door makes me flinch.

“Dylan?” It’s Phil. “Can I come in?”

No.

”Yeah,” I sit up.

He steps into my room, onto the massive navy and cream rug that covers most of the hardwood floor. Studies me for a second with calm eyes. “You sure everything’s okay?”

I force a nod, ignore the fact that my guts are twisting up.

Phil sits on the edge of the bed, almost cautiously. He does a lot of things cautiously around me. “I know this transition hasn’t been easy for you. And we want you to feel at home here. I hope you know that.”

“Sure.” My throat feels tight.

“It’s a big change. And we’re aware that—well, that you’ve been through so much already…”

I don’t look away. Bite my tongue, though, to keep from saying something I shouldn’t.

Phil sighs. “I just hope in time, you’ll see this as your home. And us as your family. That’s all we want.”

I nod again. “Okay.”

He smiles and squeezes my shoulder, looking so fucking hopeful. “I love you, son. You need to know that. I never stopped loving you.”

I want to believe him. I also want to look away.

One measly, single photo says he’s a liar.

Phil leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, limp hands hanging. I stare at the huge cheesy framed picture on the wall of a bunch of horses running on a beach. Then Phil switches gears on me. Starts talking about my first day at my new school in a couple days.

Sandy Haven Prep.

Sounds pretentious as fuck. And I must show some kind of reaction because he tells me I’ve got to “keep an open mind”. That it’ll “be an adjustment”, and other kids will “have questions” and be curious about me.

I flick my tongue against my lip ring and school my expression this time. But come on—curious? Seriously? He means they’ll stare and whisper and wait for me to screw up. Hope to witness first-hand the serial killer’s kid in action doing something that’ll prove them right: that I’m a freak and as messed up as Eli.

Phil’s voice drops, so fucking calm. “Give them a chance, Dylan. Most of them will just want to get to know you.”

I shift on the bed, glancing at him. “Sure.”

His eyes crinkle with another smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s trying. So damn hard. I look away.

Phil sighs, like he’s bracing himself, before continuing. “It’s likely there will be some kids who might be…” He pauses. “Wary. Of you.”

I clench my jaw. Here we go.

“Not because of anything you’ve done,” he adds quickly. Too quickly. “Just because they’ll have seen the news or read things online. They’ll have made up their minds about you already.”

Made up their minds that I’m a freak. A monster. Like him.

I dig my thumbnail into the skin beside my nail on my index finger, focus on the sting instead of the anger simmering in my gut.

“Try not to let it get to you,” Phil goes on. “Ignore any comments. The best thing to do is tell a teacher if someone bothers you. Or tell Diane or me after school and we’ll help you figure it out. Just—don’t react. Physically, I mean.” He sounds so sure of himself. “Reacting will only give them what they want.”

My nostrils flare as I suck in a sharp breath. He just crossed a hard line. ’Cos if some punk gets in my face, I’m not walking away. Not gonna let this new life turn me into that kind of guy.

But I bite my tongue. Phil’s eyes are practically pleading with me.

I give a stiff nod and mutter, “Yeah. Okay.”

He seems to relax. Sort of. And I feel a little bad for lying. But only a little, ’cos this guy is off his rocker if he thinks I’m gonna just fold up my balls, tuck ’em in my purse, and hand them over to some rich douchebag who thinks he’s tough just because he made it on some private school football team.

If someone pushes me, I push back harder. It’s what Eli drilled into me from as far back as I can remember. Not sure how I feel about the fact that my real dad is apparently a total push-over. And the kind of guy who expects his son to walk away when some asshole gets up in his space.

Phil studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to see inside my head. I meet his eyes. Don’t say anything, but also don’t look away.

“Dylan…” He sighs. “I know this is an adjustment. But please… Please promise me you will try to be the bigger man. That you will trust me when I tell you that Eli’s values—they’re not right. They’re not who you are. Or who we are as a family.” He leans in, his eyes intense and pleading. “And you are a part of this family. You’re a Braun. And Brauns are not violent. We use our heads. And our words.”

My jaw ticks. I flick my tongue along my lip ring again.

The bigger man is not the one who walks away.

I keep my eyes locked on his. Pretty sure my silence tips him off to what I’m thinking. “Violence…it’s never the answer,” he says gently. “I know that man taught you differently. But that kind of reaction just causes more pain. For everyone involved.”

Eli’s lessons only led to blood and bruises and brutal deaths. True. But still …

Fucking still… those instincts—they’re seared into me. Branded into me like a hot poker into my bare flesh. My freakin’ core.

I am not a monster. Or anything like Eli. But I also don’t walk away from a fight.

Phil puts a hand on my shoulder. I tense, resisting the urge to shrug him off.

“It won’t happen overnight. But you’ll get there. You’re not alone. I’ll help you. And Diane, too. And so will all the people here that you’re going to get to know who want to see you succeed and be the best version of yourself.” His voice is thick with an emotion I can’t name. It makes me want to do him proud, though. Be this guy he wants me to be.

No.

I harden myself again. Phil doesn’t know me. Hasn’t earned anything from me. Wasn’t there when I needed him. Sure as hell wasn’t there when Eli first raised his fist to me. Or the thousands of times after that. Phil doesn’t know what consequences I faced when I so much as flinched away from that psycho. Let alone if I ever had the gall to walk away… like he thinks is such a brilliant, manly reaction. So he doesn’t get to ask anything of me. Or assume anything. Or pretend to understand the anger that simmers inside every single one of my veins, pumping into my heart and fueling my entire goddamn body. He knows nothing about the rage I learned to channel into my fists.

Only… wait.

Fucking hold up. I’m the one who was taken for a fool here—fell right into step with Eli Sampson’s twisted scheme to make a joke out of me. And if my kid did to me what I did to Phil, I’d probably kick him to the curb. The humiliation of finding out your grown-ass kid is a sucker—a head-case who didn’t even see any of the signs that he was being played his entire life—that would be worse than finding out he’s dead.

I stand abruptly. “Think I’m gonna get some air. Sit in the backyard for a bit before hitting the sack.”

Phil rises slowly, nodding. “You want company?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay. Alright…” Phil nods again. “I’ll leave you be, then.” He pulls me into an awkward half-hug.

I stand rigidly, not returning it.

He heads for the door, pausing to look back at me. “I’m glad you’re here, son.”

Son . The word twists inside my gut. I nod.

He hesitates like he wants to say more, then turns and closes the door behind him.

After he leaves, I grab a hoodie from one of the dresser drawers, study the view out the window overlooking the backyard for a minute after pulling it on. The moonlight glints off the calm water. It’s peaceful here. Nothing like the chaotic, cramped apartments I grew up in.

I head downstairs, about to veer down the hall towards the patio doors in the kitchen that lead out to the back deck. But then I hear voices, coming from the sitting area off the kitchen. I recognize Diane’s clipped tone. Hear my name. She’s talking to Phil about me.

“…that he took something from your office tonight,” she’s saying. “We have to be careful, Phil. That boy has lived through horrors we can’t imagine, and I want to be there for him… But he’s unpredictable. He was violent—when they arrested him. And at the in-patient psych ward, there were several incidents where—”

“He’s on meds now,” Phil says. “He’s doing better.”

“It’s not an affliction. ” Diane sounds frustrated.

And now I want to know what an affliction means.

“The meds are to regulate mood swings… but they’re not going to miraculously counteract fourteen years of conditioning —by a deranged serial killer, Phil!” Her voice gets way higher on that last sentence, and I bristle.

She doesn’t know me .

My fingers find the edges of the frame in my pocket and I pull it out, rubbing my thumb absently back and forth against one of the ridged edges until it cuts into the pad of my thumb and I feel the warm, wet slide of blood against my skin.

I hear Phil’s response. “He just needs time. To be loved, for Chrissake! He’s not dangerous .”

“I want to help him, too,” Diane says, and I can tell she’s forcing herself to stay calm. “And we will. But we also have the girls to consider. We can’t just trust him blindly. He needs boundaries.”

“We just gave him boundaries! We told him he needs permission to go in our offices or in the girls’ rooms. And we’ll…”

Their voices dim as I veer right, heading for the side door instead of the kitchen, along a long hallway in a fancy house that’s supposed to be mine but doesn’t feel like mine at all. Holding a photo of a mother I don’t even recognize, not even caring that my blood is smeared all over the glass now.

Because blood, at least, is familiar.