Page 2 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats (Till Death Do Us Part #1)

Chapter One

Atticus

Fifteen years old…

The car jerks to a stop and I get out before Ingrid, my case worker, can say a word to me. The last thing I need from her is another pep-talk on how to act right. She, like all the other adults I talk to, should just accept the fact that I’m not a good kid.

I yank open the back door to pull out my duffel bag and backpack.

They’re light, considering they hold everything I own, other than the clothes on my back and the crumpled photo in my shoe.

I learned long ago that stuffing things in your pocket doesn’t keep them safe, so I started putting important things in my shoe instead.

I move up the walkway, Ingrid’s heels tapping on the cement as she hurries to reach me. Before I can step onto the stained-wood porch, she rounds me and stops in front of me.

“You have to behave here, Atticus. We’re out of places to put you at this point. It’s bad enough we had to beg this family to take you.” She pins me with a dark stare and lowers her voice even more. “They’re one of the good ones.”

Her hair is a frizzy mess, pulled back into a knot that looks like it’s supposed to be messy in an artistic way, but only looks like a bird made a home in it. Her mascara is clumpy, and she has more lipstick on her teeth than her thin lips.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “Got it. No one wants me.”

She frowns, huffing out an annoyed sound. “It’s your own fault. If you would just act right—”

I stare at her blankly, not having a single word to say to that. Words are pointless when you’re a kid like me. No one listens to a troubled kid who was given up for adoption once and orphaned some time later, then bounced from foster home to foster home for being unmanageable.

I’m always told to behave, to act right, to just do what’s asked of me. But I’m not stupid. None of these people want me. They’re only in it for the money and the power trips. Why the hell should I do what they want when all I am to them is a paycheck? May as well make them earn that money.

“I’m serious,” Ingrid whispers harshly. “You’re going to end up in another group home if you don’t get your act together.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“After what happened in the last one—yes.”

She’s talking about me being housed in a group home with a staff member who turned out to be a pedophile and was raping all the girls that came in.

He’d drug them and have his way with them.

It only came out because one of the girls didn’t actually consume the drink he made her—though he thought she did.

He tried getting into her pants, and she freaked out.

“No one touched me,” I say with a shrug.

He only wanted the girls. And since I was so fortunately born with a dick between my legs, I was of no interest to him. Guess I’m just lucky like that.

“How you can be so cold is beyond me. Those kids were your friends,” she hisses.

No, they weren’t my friends. Not even close. They hated me and made sure I knew it. Just like every other kid I’ve met. Adults don’t like me. Kids don’t like me. Hell, I don’t even like me half the time.

I don’t argue with Ingrid because it’ll just lead to another lecture. Another adult trying to drill things into my head that they don’t understand. Is there an age when you forget what it’s like being a kid? If so, I wanna skip that age.

“Can I go inside now?”

She holds my gaze, tapping her expensive shoe on the cement before nodding and moving out of the way. I stop at the front door, and she pushes the doorbell. It takes a few seconds for a smiling middle-aged woman with strawberry blond hair down to her shoulders to greet us.

“You must be Atticus,” she says brightly. “What a handsome young man you are. Please, come in.”

I step into a large living room that takes up the front end of the house.

It’s suffocatingly warm. It’s nearly spring and from here I can see the big black letters against the green screen on the temperature panel reading 75°.

It’s 70° outside, why the hell are we blasting the heat?

This is issue number one of a long list I’ll keep locked away in my head.

It’s no longer weird for me to step into a stranger’s house. I’ve danced this dance before, been to a dozen houses where I’m not wanted. They’re all the same, but with different smells, different decor, and different layouts—people who look different, but all act the same.

The white walls are covered in photos of smiling children and her with some blond guy—probably her husband.

Everyone looks happy. Psychotically so. I mean, a ginger and a blond making babies?

That’s the work of the devil right there.

Or maybe they don’t have any children of their own and it’s why they’re “doing the work of angels,” as some have said.

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Lisa,” Ingrid says in a hushed voice. I roll my eyes, frowning at the picture of some kid holding up a large trophy.

“It’s truly no problem. We have an open bed, and he’s welcome here.” Someone moves up beside me. It’s Lisa, smiling at the wall stupidly. “These are some of the children we’ve had over the years. We love traveling and doing things together as a family.”

Family? Sounds gross. But I turn to her and give her my best smile.

I’ve found it’s the most fun to play nice for a while, so they think I’m a good kid.

As if she doesn’t already have an opinion of me in her head, after being begged to take me.

Still, I’m told I have one of those politician smiles that people trust. Yes, even at only fifteen.

“Come on, I’ll show you to your room,” she says, putting her hand on my upper arm. I jerk away, out of her touch.

“Oh, he doesn’t like to be touched,” Ingrid says, stepping forward with her arm outstretched as if she’ll have to protect me. She couldn’t protect a fucking ant.

“I’m so sorry,” Lisa says, a strange emotion crossing over her eyes.

I haven’t quite gotten down all the emotions that people go through, considering I feel practically none of them.

I’m learning, though, and most of the time I’m a quick learner, but everyone is different with how they express their feelings.

They experience and show emotions differently, and so I have to spend some time with them before understanding them.

Though, this has nothing to do with my affliction to being touched. I just don’t like people in my space.

“How about his room?” Ingrid suggests when Lisa doesn’t move.

“Good idea,” she says, holding my gaze.

She walks out of the living room and I follow behind her, keeping my eyes on the floor. We go down a hall and then up a flight of narrow stairs with walls on both sides that lead to an open bright room.

“This is the kids’ living room area where they all hang out,” Lisa explains. “You are free to go anywhere in the house except for my bedroom and Ed’s den, which are both downstairs. They stay locked at all times.” She glances over her shoulder. “You understand, don’t you?”

I nod and keep following her down the hallway. She stops about halfway. There are five doors here: three on the right and two on the left, all closed.

“The first door there,“ she points to the door on the right, closest to the living room, “is the bathroom. There is just the one up here, so you all have to share. We have a detailed schedule for showering and other things that you will have to follow to ensure everyone stays clean and does their part. The two rooms on the right are the girls’ rooms. They each have their own room right now. On the other side are the boys’ rooms, and there are two beds per room. This one here is where you will be staying.”

Lisa walks to the first door on the left and opens it, stepping inside.

There is a twin-sized bed against the wall to the left when you walk in, and another across from the door. Each has an end table beside it with a dresser. One is neatly made while the other is a mess.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess over here.” Lisa gestures to the unmade bed. “Trenton doesn’t understand what cleaning means.”

“The rest of the children are currently in school,” Ingrid adds.

“Yes, that’s right. I’ll enroll you tomorrow, and you’ll likely start on Monday.”

Considering today is Thursday, it makes sense and it’s what I assumed would happen. This is not my first rodeo.

“We can talk more about that later, though,” Lisa says with a small wave of her hand. “Why don’t you get settled in here while I gather everything that you’ll need?”

“Lisa is very organized and detailed. She makes these adorable little binders for the kids to help them learn the schedule,” Ingrid says with a bright smile, as if I give a shit about a binder. I’ll keep it beside the toilet for when this shit hole runs out of toilet paper—they always do.

“It’s not all that much trouble,” Lisa says with a wave.

“But it’s truly appreciated,” Ingrid responds, and I want to throw up.

“I’ll make you some tea before you go, Ingrid. Let’s leave him be, for now.”

“Let me just have a word,” Ingrid says, and Lisa leaves the room.

Ingrid steps up to me, giving me a sad smile.

“This is your last shot, Atticus. You get kicked out of this house, and no one will want you. Lisa and her husband are good people. They do us many favors by taking in difficult children and accepting emergency stays. Do not screw this up.” Her words are stern but not unkind.

Ingrid is a confusing person. It’s like she distances herself from her job so she doesn’t have to be sad about it.

From what I’m told, her job is difficult because emotions get in the way and she feels bad for all the fucked-up kids she has to move from home to home.

I think if she can’t handle it, she should find a new job.

“I’ll check in with you next week,” she adds before leaving the room and closing the door.

I go over to the made bed, drop my bags to the floor and tear the blankets down to mess it up, making it look like Trenton’s. Feels a little better that way.