Page 5

FIVE

MJ

This is stupid.

This is stupid.

This is stupid.

I held the sticky note with Logan’s number in my hand as I paced across the wooden floors of my childhood home. You would think the opulent estate would be where many fond childhood memories were safely tucked away.

You’d be wrong.

Up until my father was arrested, the King estate was his kingdom, and he ruled with an iron fist. I was pushing thirty, living with my aunt Bug, with no clue what to do next. I looked around. My bedroom was my sanctuary, but maybe it was time to get an apartment—finally do something because I wanted to do it.

Trouble was, I didn’t really know what I wanted. In the past, when I’d trusted my gut, things went terribly wrong. So I learned to focus on what was safe. If I put one foot in front of the other and kept moving, I wouldn’t stumble.

Now I’d spent so long not stumbling that I just felt stuck.

I stared down at Logan’s note, his phone number written in blocky, masculine handwriting at the bottom.

I knew he still wanted me to attend a match, but he hadn’t pushed. A part of me hated that his confident, aloof attitude about it made me want to go to see what all the fuss was about.

The note had started to curl at the edges from how tightly I’d been gripping it. Logan’s number stared back at me like it held some kind of forbidden mystery.

Calling him would mean stepping into something unknown. And unknowns had a way of biting me in the ass. I paced across the room, the wood creaking faintly under my sneakers, my thoughts tangling with every step.

A small knock sounded at my door. My pacing stopped as my heart skidded in my chest. “Come in.”

The door cracked open, and Aunt Bug stepped inside. Her expression was tight, her eyes guarded in a way that made my stomach twist.

Something was wrong.

“Hey, MJ.” Her voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant. “Busy?”

“Hey,” I said cautiously, setting the sticky note on my desk. “Not at all. What’s up?”

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it as though she needed the extra support. “I just got a call,” she began, her fingers twisting the edge of her blouse. “It’s about your dad.”

My stomach dropped. “What about him?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line before she finally said, “He’s dead, MJ. It happened over night.”

The words didn’t register at first. They hung in the air, sharp and impossible, like a punchline to a joke no one wanted to laugh at.

“What?” The word came out choked, barely audible. “How?”

Bug sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the news. “He was stabbed at the county jail. Someone got to him with a shank.” She hesitated, her gaze darting to the floor. “It was . . . Oliver Pendegrass.”

That name. The recognition hit me like a slap. Oliver Pendegrass was a ghost from my brother Abel’s past. Oliver had been Abel’s roommate in prison.

“He killed Dad?” My voice was barely above a whisper.

Bug nodded, her mouth a grim line. “It sounds like he considered it a twisted kind of favor to your brother? I don’t know all the details yet, but . . . it’s done.”

I sank onto the edge of my bed, the weight of the news pressing down on me like a lead blanket.

My father—dead. Stabbed in prison.

My mind scrambled to reconcile the man who had loomed so large in my life with this abrupt, violent end.

He was my dad. But he was also Russell King. A tyrant. A liar. A murderer. My feelings for him had dimmed a long time ago.

Still, a hollow ache spread through my chest.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to feel,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “I feared him. But he was still my dad.”

Bug crossed the room, sitting beside me on the bed. Her strong arm wrapped around my shoulders, steadying me in the storm. “You don’t have to know what to feel right now, MJ.”

A shaky breath escaped me. “It’s just . . . I thought having him gone would feel like freedom, you know? Like I could finally breathe. But now . . .” I trailed off, my hands trembling in my lap.

Bug reached for my hand, her grip warm and grounding. “Russell made his choices, and those choices had consequences. You don’t owe him anything—not your forgiveness, not your grief. Nothing.”

I swallowed hard, her words both a comfort and a challenge.

Did I believe that? Could I let go of the guilt that always seemed to trail me like a shadow?

My gaze drifted to the sticky note on my desk. Logan’s number. His invitation to the game. It was a sliver of something—something new, something outside the orbit of my father’s influence.

Bug followed my gaze, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. “What’s that?”

The note stared back at me, its significance dimmed by the events that had just unfolded. “It’s nothing,” I said, my voice flat.

Her eyebrows lifted. Bug rose, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, MJ. Trust it. And trust yourself.”

She left with a gentle pat on my shoulder, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

* * *

The days blurred together after Bug’s revelation. I floated through them, doing the things that needed to be done—eating, working, existing. But everything felt muted, like the volume of my life had been turned down as I struggled to muster any kind of emotion regarding my father’s death.

Was I some kind of heartless monster?

Bug took care of most of the arrangements, and for that, I was grateful. Neither my siblings nor I had it in us to make decisions about memorials or urns or any of the logistics that followed a death.

Not for him.

When I wasn’t working or walking aimlessly through the house, I found myself obsessing over the sticky note on my desk, the edges curling just a little more each day. Logan’s invitation still sat unanswered, and I hated the way it mocked me—bold and sure, as if stepping into something unknown wasn’t terrifying.

But tonight wasn’t about Logan. It wasn’t even about me. It was about figuring out what came next.

For all of us.

A small knock sounded at my door. My pacing stopped. “Yep, come in.”

The door cracked open and my sister Sylvie peeked through with a smile. “Hey.”

I gave her a small, sad smile back. “Hi.”

“Everyone’s waiting downstairs.” Sylvie, with her soft blond hair and dark-brown eyes, was the spitting image of our mother—not that I remembered Mom. I was only three when she left.

When he killed her.

I was still wrapping my head around the fact that my father had murdered our mother and let us believe she’d abandoned us all.

My intuition had always told me there was something dangerous about my father. It was what had warned me to quietly slip below his radar by overachieving and being pleasantly agreeable. I’d learned early that my father cared most about his reputation, and having a successful nurse for a daughter helped polish his image.

“It’s strange,” Sylvie said, looking around my room. “The walls feel quieter somehow.”

I breathed in deeply, understanding exactly what she meant. “I think it’s knowing he’s not ever coming back ... like the energy is finally at peace around here.”

Sylvie smiled. “Now you’re sounding like Hazel.”

My brother’s girlfriend, Hazel, was pretty witchy—she believed in healing energy and all kinds of natural remedies. She had healed my brother JP in countless ways, so it was hard to deny the effects of her methods, even if I couldn’t really explain them myself.

The corner of my mouth turned up. “She did sage the fuck out of the entire place.”

Sylvie breathed in a lungful of air and exhaled dramatically. “Well, I think it might have worked.”

Together we laughed as I sat on the bed with my sister, resting my head on her shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked.

Unexpected emotion prickled inside my nose. “I don’t know what I am,” I admitted. “I’m almost thirty, living at home. All my siblings have found their purpose in life and someone to share it with. Even JP, which is actually mind-blowing. Sometimes I look around and wonder what the hell I’m doing. I don’t even have a goldfish.”

Sylvie’s eyebrows bunched. “Do you want a goldfish?”

I laughed. “Not really.”

“I think,” she said, patting my knee, “if you want something different, do something you’ve never done. Find an adventure. No one is expecting you to be perfect.”

My father’s stern face flashed through my mind. Russell King expected me to be perfect, but he was gone.

My fingers slid across the crumpled sticky note before I handed it to Sylvie. “Logan gave me his number and asked me to watch him play rugby.” I wrinkled my nose, trying to gauge her reaction.

Sylvie looked at the paper, and I could tell she was hiding a small smile. “That could be fun. You haven’t really dated anyone in a long time ...”

Since Trent.

Sylvie didn’t need to finish her sentence for me to understand what she was saying. I hadn’t shared all the details, but she understood that he’d broken something inside me. Trent had violated my trust and my body in ways I was still coping with.

I hated him—not only for what he’d done, but for how his actions still haunted me.

“Logan is Trent’s friend.” A sardonic laugh escaped me as I crumpled the sticky note in my hand. “What are the odds, right?”

Sylvie frowned but stayed silent.

I could hear people talking downstairs, so I stood and tried to brush my feelings away. “I’ll figure it out.” My words sounded far more defensive than I’d intended. Shame and guilt coursed through me.

Sylvie rose and squeezed my hand. “I know you’ll figure it out. You always do. We’ll see you down there.”

With a gentle hug, Sylvie slipped out of my room. I stared down at the crumpled note in my hand.

My fingers itched to type in the numbers and accept his invitation. Besides, I kind of liked sports. Sure, I didn’t really care who played or won, but there was always something magical and exciting about watching a game in person—the energy of the stadium, the crowd cheering, extra-cheesy nachos and a cold beer.

Plus, the people watching was fun.

With a resigned sigh, I dropped the sticky note into the drawer of my desk and shoved away the gnawing disappointment that Logan Brown was probably no different from the rest.

As I walked down the grand staircase, I followed the din of voices until I reached the solarium at the back of the house. Faded, golden light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The landscaped backyard stretched beyond the windows, and I recalled the bridal shower I had helped throw for Abel and Sloane.

My eyes landed on my oldest brother. He’d been so damaged and jaded after his time in prison, but his love for Sloane had pulled him out of his darkest days. All my siblings, plus Bug, moved to the dining room and sat.

Despite the crowd, the room felt too quiet, too still, considering everything that had happened.

The air was thick with unspoken words as we stared at the basic urn that held our father’s ashes.

He was dead. We all knew that, but the weight of it hadn’t settled yet. I looked at each of my siblings. The years of pressure and disappointment, and downright abuse served by the hands of our father, were palpable.

No one knew what to say. The past few years, cracks in my father’s flawless mask had become caverns. Sadness washed over me as I realized he’d done so much irreparable damage to his own children that not a single one of us knew what to say.

My thoughts wandered to his other wife and adult children we’d learned about. His real family. I’d been stunned to learn that our mother was his mistress and that when she’d attempted to leave with us, he’d killed her. We’d lived our whole lives believing his lies—that she’d simply walked away from us because we were unlovable. He’d made himself out to be a hero, when really, he was a monster.

They can have him .

“I can reach out to his other family.” My voice was soft but determined. “Maybe they’ll want the ashes ... his wife, or ... someone.”

The room went still as my words hung in the air. Every pair of eyes turned to me, some surprised, others relieved. I looked at the urn and swallowed hard. I didn’t owe him anything. Not forgiveness, not kindness, not this. But maybe giving him to them was the only way to truly get rid of him—for all of us.

My brother Royal leaned back in his chair, giving me a long look. “You’re a good person,” he said quietly.

A tiny pang of guilt shot through me.

I wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of my heart. We had suffered enough at the hands of Russell King. Our town revered him, and I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone mourning his death.

Not after what he’d done.

Aunt Bug sighed from the end of the table, her hands nervously twisting the edge of a kitchen towel. “I always tried to keep you safe, you know,” she said, her voice cracking with the years of weight she’d carried. “Even though I didn’t want to believe he took your mother ... I tried my best.”

My heart twisted as the strongest woman I had ever known nearly crumbled.

“But you’ve always been our mom,” Sylvie said, her voice firm, cutting through the heavy silence.

There was no hesitation in her words, no doubt. The rest of us nodded, and a chorus of agreement filled the room.

“Bug, you were more of a mother to us than anyone else ever could’ve been,” Abel added, and for once, his usual gruffness softened.

Whip grinned despite the tension. “Yeah, you definitely fed us more sugar than was good for us. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

God, I loved him and his knack for cutting tension.

I sent him a grateful smile, which he returned with a wink.

Together we chuckled, the mood lightening, and Bug’s eyes misted over as she looked at each of us, her makeshift children.

“Damn straight I did,” she replied with a proud sniff. “And I’d do it again.”

In that moment, as the laughter and warmth spread through the room, the weight of our father’s death didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

Abel was the first to leave, creating a ripple of disjointed goodbyes and awkward hugs. I sat, staring at the urn.

Why had I offered to see them?

“You okay?” I looked up to find my older brother JP frowning at me.

I wiped my hands across the tops of my jeans. We had been only five and three when our mother disappeared. Our other siblings had memories of our mother, and in many ways that had brought JP and me together. We’d bonded over the lack of her.

I looked at the urn again, taking a small, sick pleasure in knowing Dad would have hated how simple and unobtrusive it was.

“You think having him as a father was as horrible for them as it was for us?” I asked.

JP leaned on the back of a dining chair. “I don’t see how it could have been much better. He was around a lot, which means he probably wasn’t around much for them , you know?”

My lips twisted. “I guess.”

“You know”—he leaned in—“you don’t have to do it. I’ll toss that urn in the garbage right now, and we’ll never speak of it again.”

A wry laugh burst out of me. “You’re unhinged.” I shook my head. “No, I think the guilt alone would eat me alive. I’ll just hand it over and walk away with a clear conscience.”

JP’s hands spread. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.” He flicked my ponytail. “I heard there’s been someone giving you trouble at work. Any of that true?”

I groaned and rested my forehead in my hands. “Not you too.”

I tilted my head to see JP smirking. He shrugged. “Hazel was very excited to tell me about it. I can’t help that I’m a good listener.”

I shook my head. “Logan Brown is a man-size child with an overinflated ego.”

Who is also best friends with the worst human on the planet.

“Huh.” I narrowed my eyes at my brother as he continued with a shrug: “Thought you were a better judge of character than that.”

“Okay, you find one soulmate and you’re giving dating advice now?” I teased as I stood.

JP grinned. “What can I say? I’m a changed man.”

I returned the smile. “I always knew you were in there.”

“Take it from me.” JP gestured at his chest. “It’s a lot easier when you stop fighting it.”

With a quick hug, I said goodbye to JP and hoisted my father’s urn onto my hip.

With no one around, I shoved it into a box in the broom closet, locking it up along with every noisy, complicated feeling I didn’t want to have.